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Dylan smiled. “You’re welcome. Have you had any further thoughts on your A-levels?”

Dylan wants a safer topic. Can I blame him?

“Music and art. Definitely. Maybe maths or physics. Or history. Or French.” I shrugged. I didn’t know what I wanted to do.

“Interesting combination,” he noted with a wry smile. “With your results, you can study whatever you want.”

“Maybe I’ll study to become a doctor.”

He laughed, and I realized I liked making him laugh. He looked younger and less exhausted. “I have no doubt you’d make an excellent doctor.”

Now I laughed. “I’m a bit squeamish.”

He grimaced. “That’s something to consider. Medicine’s not for the squeamish. I didn’t know you played the cello so well.”

“You know it’s… It was my mother’s passion.” The thought of my mother sobered me. “She taught me. She’s… She was a fantastic teacher. She’s why I excelled at the cello. I passed my grade eight at fifteen.”

“Wow. From the little I heard, she taught you well.”

“My father taught me piano too, but it’s the cello I love.”

Dylan’s smile was wistful. “I like to hear you talk about your parents. And you’re right, Sarah was a stunning cellist, and I knew you played too, but I had no idea how well. But you should do what you enjoy, Emily. Find your passion and follow it. I’m lucky. I’ve learned to love what I do.”

Our food arrived, and while we ate, Dylan entertained me with his memories of my mother from when he was a child. He saw her occasionally when she had to visit her father, his stepfather.

“I remember her being a ray of light. Even then. She was good with me in spite of our age difference.” A fond smile tugged at his lips. It was obvious he adored her, even though she was much older than him.

“But we lost touch once she stopped coming to see her dad. I missed her, but we reconnected once Billy was born.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile.

“Billy brought everyone together,” I whispered.

“He did.” Dylan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “How’s your food?” he asked, and I knew he was changing the subject.

“Good.” I wanted to please him. “But I’m not sure I’ll manage all of it.”

“Just eat what you can.”

When lunch was done, we drove back to Chiswick in companionable silence. I thought about Dylan’s passionate plea for me to eat and decided I would try harder. I didn’t want to stress him out.

Back at home, I changed into my jeans and T-shirt and pulled on Dylan’s old shirt again. I was anxious to paint more golden leaves, and I was soon lost in my intricate vine.

At six, Dylan popped his head around the door, dressed in his running vest and shorts.

“I’m just off for a run,” he said, fiddling with his earbuds. “Will you be okay?”

“Of course,” I mumbled, distracted by his appearance and annoyed that he thought I couldn’t take care of myself.

“I’ll be about an hour. I haven’t been running for a while…” His voice trailed off, and guilt spawned familiar and unwelcome in my gut. This was something else I’d been keeping him from.

“Leaves look good,” he said, popping his earbuds in as he left.

Why do I feel so guilty?

I had to stop it.

I hit my forehead with the heel of my hand to try to get through to my brain, and suddenly the room was filled once more with extraordinary fragrance. Breathing it in, I savored it.

“Hey,” a deep voice said behind me.