Page 25 of House of Clouds


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She nodded. “As long as you need me.” She didn’t want to say the words that hung in the air. She couldn’t.

“But what about Giancarlo? Don’t you have things you need to do there?”

She shrugged. “It’s fine. You’re more important than anything I have waiting in Rome.”

She took his hand and squeezed it, meaning the words in so many ways she couldn’t articulate.

Eleven

The shades of golds, amber, and crimson were too much to resist. It was almost without thinking that she grabbed her camera and headed out the door, heading toward the riotous color at the end of the block where an old Victorian house lay hidden behind a thick forest of trees so lush with leaves, it was only the house’s small turret roof that was visible. Kate remembered that house from her childhood, the trick-or-treat visits that seemed all the spookier because Professor Emerson always sat on the porch dressed as an motionless zombie, complete with pale makeup and dark-ringed eyes, green nails, and dirty clothes, only to rise up unexpectedly as soon as their backs were turned and scare them in the most deliciously wicked way. Back then, the trees had been moderately high and the house clearly visible. Now, the trees were just begging to be photographed, a collage of shapes and colors.

Kate walked toward it, scanning the other houses, the street and everything else about the neighborhood she hadn’t taken in since she’d arrived. Or for a long time before that, when it came down to it. The houses were for the most part in good condition, only some a little tired at the edges. The inhabitants reflected the odd mixture of houses. Spacious old Victorians toward one end of the street with the more modest Cape Cod and Sears craft houses at the other end. The Victorian houses were occupied by the academics and the Cape Cod and craft houses by the local townspeople who worked in a variety of occupations. The townies, as the college students called them. And as odd and seemingly idyllic it might appear, it was when the children came into it that anything laudable disappeared and the usual lines were drawn. How could you make friends with someone who was away at boarding school or at best went to a private school? Still, Professor Emerson and his wife, also a professor, had always been nice to her, even if their son, five years older, hadn’t.

She stood a few feet away from the Emerson place, lifted her camera and began to click, pausing every few seconds for adjustments for focus and depth, trying different angles, becoming completely lost in the process. Instinct told her that this would be good for a project. She wasn’t certain what yet, but that didn’t matter. She walked around the trees, catching different angles. She moved closer and caught more glimpses of the house. She photographed the small sections of the muted, pale gray wood with the navy trim that peeped out and liked the contrast the wood hues played against the colors of the trees. She was also taken by the wrought-iron trim that featured in places. The fine Victorian accents caught her eye, and she found herself photographing sections of them. They all sang potential to her and she found herself humming a tune, words drifting around in her head. This time she let it play out and just enjoyed the moment and the moment that came after it, savoring it all, because she hadn’t felt this kind of joyous inspiration in a long time. Not since her initial trip to Medina. But even then, there had been constraints driven by Giancarlo’s expectations and her desire to meet them. This time, in contrast she just felt the pure joy and instinct combined with no real goal or understanding of what it might become. And no need to know yet. Fluid, dynamic. Just filled with possibilities.

She continued taking pictures, moving angles, positions, and using a few different lenses. She might come back at a different time of day. Maybe late afternoon, just before sunset, when the angles and light were different from this early morning light. She checked her watch and drew in her breath when she saw how late it was. She needed to get back for her father. He was probably up by now.

Ever since he’d come home from the hospital, he’d been determined to prove to everyone he was fine, that he didn’t need any extra help. He’d even made Tom cancel the order for the hospital bed and refused to even entertain moving his own bed downstairs. Every evening since his return the week before, he’d made the trip up and downstairs, his steps firm and even. He’d also made a point of making his usual meals, though Kate had noticed that Max had taken to sitting beside him at the table, fostering the speculation that Max had some involvement in the clean plate he presented to her when she went to do the dishes. He had expressed gratitude for her presence and the various ways she tried to make his life easier. He’d never been one for doing regular laundry, or vacuuming. Those had been her chores from the moment her mother had died. And his cooking had only been sufficient for basic meals. Now she took over all of it, and was glad to do it. It kept her mind and body busy while she fought off unwanted thoughts.

As she neared the house, she thought she could hear faint sounds of music leaking out from inside. Was her father playing a CD or an LP? He hadn’t quite been won over to Spotify, despite Tom’s best efforts, insisting he’d rather look at cover art and read the lyrics to gain the full experience of the artist’s work. She made her way up the wooden steps, pausing to note the cushions that had been left out on the porch swing. Something she’d forgotten last night. She hadn’t quite created a routine that would allow her to remember it without thinking. Maybe a list would do it. Daily tasks. All these little details had slipped out of her world in the last ten years.

She opened the door and saw her father and Ethan seated on the sofa and armchair, guitars in their laps, picking out a melody. Max was laid out on the floor, head on his front paws, content, while the melody they picked out ambled and wandered around him like a lazy old day. Ethan was in his usual casual clothes, a flannel shirt flung over the ribbed shirt, hair its usual shaggy mess. His face looked bared, open, with no glasses or ball cap to shield it from scrutiny. Both he and her father had relaxed grins on their faces, eyeing each other occasionally as the music progressed. Kate paused, taking in the scene. She found herself smiling.

Max rose from his place and made his way over to her for a head pat. Her father looked up, his face brightening. “Oh, there you are. I was wondering where you’d gone.”

She held up her camera, the strap hanging around her neck. “I was out taking pictures. The trees are gorgeous right now and I couldn’t resist.”

Her father nodded. “Yeah, they’re something, aren’t they?”

“Where did you go?” asked Ethan.

He set the guitar down, next to the sofa. She saw it was hers and surprised herself that she was pleased he felt he could borrow it.

“Just down the street. To the house at the end. The Emersons’.”

“Professor Emerson?” he asked.

She nodded. “Did you have him for biology?”

He shook his head. “I had her for Microeconomics 201. Brutal.”

“She was brutal?”

He laughed. “No, but microeconomics was.”

“You took micro economics?” she asked, disbelief in her voice. She couldn’t imagine him being that interested in any kind of economics. “I didn’t think you majored in business. I thought it was English.” She flushed a moment, realizing she’d given herself away. She shrugged, adding, “At least that was what I heard.”

He gave her a speculative look. “I didn’t major in business. But my father wanted me to, so I compromised and promised to take some of the courses, if only to prove that I wasn’t suited to it, like he hoped I would be. He wanted me to take over the family business.”

“I thought he was in politics?” she asked.

“He is, but the family has a company up in Boston. Well, near Boston. Aviation parts.” He grimaced.

“And you don’t find that fascinating?” asked her father, humor in his voice.

Ethan shook his head and snorted. “God, no. My dad can wax lyrical about it, but it just leaves me numb with boredom.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile.

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