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We sit in companionable silence for a while, listening to the rain patter softly against the window.
I take a breath and let the memory of Aimee and me drinking coffee in our shabby Brooklyn apartment surface. I’m gentle with it, holding it hopefully in my mind. It was our little morning routine. No matter what classes I had, we would sit like this and just enjoy each other’s company for a while.
I miss her so much tears begin to form in my eyes again. But I blink them away quickly. Arnie said he’d find her for me. I just have to trust he’ll come through for me.
Doesn’t someone have to, eventually?
In the meantime…
“Angus?”
“Yes, ma’am?” He stops himself. “Miss Maguire.”
“When was the last time any work was done on this place?”
“I can’t say for sure,” Angus replies. “Mr. Knight only inherited this place a year ago. But if memory serves, it hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years.”
“Arnie said he used to visit his uncle sometimes.” I hesitate a second before continuing. “Would you go with him?”
Angus studies me carefully. “Not every visit, but enough to understand how difficult it was for him.”
“Must have been strange coming back.”
“I must say, I’m not convinced that he has.” He gets a faraway look before returning to face me sheepishly. “Not yet, at least.”
Instead of prying, despite every instinct screaming at me to do just that, I glance again at the peeling walls. “Do you have any DIY supplies?”
Angus gives me a conspiratorial smile.
***
An hour and several cans of paint, swaths of fabric, and a mad search for a staple gun later, the two of us are sitting on the floor of the lounge, picking apart the couch cushions.
“I feel as if I’m doing this wrong,” Angus says as he snaps a thread in two.
“It looks weird now, but I promise when it’s done, it’ll look great!” I encourage him as I finish off my own. “Just trust the process.”
“You certainly seem to have a lot of experience in this area.”
“When we moved to LA, we didn’t have a lot of money,” I explain, tugging at a stubborn string. “Aimee was always terrible at this kind of thing, but I enjoyed making a home for us out of everything we could find.”
“You and your sister were close?”
“Are,” I correct automatically before stopping myself. “Well, at least I thought so.”
Angus looks up at me. “I’m sure it’s simply a misunderstanding.”
I give him a grateful smile as I pull the final stitch and the stained fabric from the cushion falls to the floor. “Ta-da!”
“So now what?”
“Now, we pick a color,” I reply, looking toward the pile of fabrics Angus was able to procure. “Oh, I love this orange!”
I pick up a bright-colored swatch and hold it up for Angus to see.
He squints at it. “I know I’m new to this, but won’t it just clash with everything else?”
He’s not wrong. I look at the swatch again, then over at the paints. “It’s okay. I think I’m going to repaint anyway.”
