Page 41 of House of Clouds


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Build it on the moonlit cloud

To which I looked with thee.

The words of the poem he spoke infused her body, stripping away the years, the thick skin and all the walls she’d worked so hard on in the past several years. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. That poem. The poem that had opened her up to so many possibilities. Possibilities that ultimately led her to fall apart. Could she do this? Should she do this? Unable to help herself, she stared at him, eyes wide.

“You do remember, don’t you?” he’d said when he finished the first verse. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning. We studied that poem in class. You loved it, too, I seem to remember.” His tone was warm, resonant, and excited. “I thought this view and the poem would make a perfect combination for one of your art projects.”

She stared at him a moment, then looked out at the lake, to the reflection, her mind whirring. She found herself nodding slowly. It was unmistakable how perfect it was. She couldn’t deny it, or how well it would fit in with her poet theme. Her creative side exploded again, running away with the applications, the uses the images she could work and weave with the words and what she had on her camera. She would have to do it. Her creative side wouldn’t let her shut it down, it was too late.

Kate smiled, still staring at the lake. “Yes, it is perfect, isn’t it?” She lifted the camera to her and this time she decided she would invert the image when she printed it, which would compel the viewer to look twice in an effort to discern which image was real and which was the reflection.

Eighteen

Kate stood in the kitchen, sipping a hot chocolate, her hands circling the mug, warming themselves. Ethan stirred the contents of his own mug and picked it up to face her, taking a large drink of the chocolate. He leaned against the counter a few feet from where she stood. It was an old Formica counter, full of cracks and stains, but scrubbed clean, she noted, like the stainless-steel sink and the side-by-side refrigerator in avocado green that stood guard at the end of the counter in all its faded glory. With the pine cabinets and linoleum flooring covered by a braided rag rug, it was a retro look in its purest form.

“Ah,” he said after swallowing the chocolate. “That’s better. You can really feel the cold off the lake.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you.”

The hot chocolate had been at Ethan’s insistence as they walked the path back from the dock to the house. She couldn’t deny her own toes were starting to feel numb and her fingers too. Standing there talking and taking pictures had given the wind and damp ample opportunity to find the gaps and vulnerable places in her clothing.

The house, or cabin, as Zig had called it, was warm, and she put her cup down a moment so she could shed her coat. Though it was really just a summer place, with the windows to prove it, Ethan had lit a fire in the big wood stove. It must have been burning a while, because the large open-plan room that comprised the kitchen, eating area, and living room had a toasty quality that made her want to curl up on the old colonial-style sofa and read.

Seeing no coatrack or closet, she put her coat on the back of one of the pine chairs drawn up to the kitchen table that served as the eating area. She caught sight of the laptop propped open on the table by the chair opposite the one where she’d slung her coat.

“Working hard on lyrics?” she asked, curious.

He snorted. “God, no. I do that with the piano or the guitar and a notebook.”

“Oh? What’s this, then?”

She’d meant the tone to be light, playful. Anything to get her mind off their previous conversation out at the lake. The poetry. It was still unnerving her. She knew he didn’t have any idea what that poem meant to her. Or the journey it had taken her on and his part in it. Her mind told her that over and over as they walked toward the house. The House of Clouds. She shook her head.

“It’s my novel,” he said, his tone awkward. He shoved his free hand in his pocket and went over to stand in front of the laptop in an almost protective move.

Kate looked at him and raised her brows. “Your novel? Really?”

He looked down at the laptop, avoiding her gaze. He nodded.

“What’s it about?” she asked, trying to keep her tone nonchalant.

She was so intrigued, part of her certain that anything Ethan touched would be gold, his talent in so many things self-evident, and the other part of her wanting to witness what this Ethan Peterson would do with words. His essays in college had always stunned her with their erudite quality, and she’d always felt intimidated by his ability to find such insights in the literature and speak about them so eloquently.

He shrugged. “Life. A life.”

She laughed. “Very obscure and literary. Tells me everything I need to know.”

He looked up at her and matched her laugh with his own. “I know. Pretentious. You don’t have to tell me. I’m just messing around.”

But something in his eyes told her he wasn’t messing around. “Can I read a little of it?” she asked softly.

He studied her a moment. “Like I said, show me images of your exhibition, and I’ll show you some of my novel.”

She gave him a puzzled look, uncertain for a moment if he was serious. She made an impulsive decision. “Fine.” She indicated the laptop. “Is that hooked up to the internet?”

He nodded.

“All right,” she said, grabbing the chair nearest to the one in front of the laptop and sitting in it. “Get it up, and I’ll show you some of the images that were posted on Giancarlo’s gallery website. They should still be there.”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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