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When Angus doesn’t respond, I turn to look at him.
“You mean, the walls?” he says slowly, caution lacing his tone.
“And a couple of cupboards.” I offer him a cheeky smile. “If Arnie doesn’t like it, I’ll tell him it was all my idea.”
Angus seems to hesitate a moment, torn between keeping me entertained and inadvertently pissing off his boss.
“Fine,” he says at last with a sigh. “But what about the rest of the cushions?”
“Here.” I pick up my naked cushion from the floor and hand it to him, along with the fabric and staple gun. “Let me show you.”
I fold the fabric over and begin showing him how to attach it along one edge. After a couple demonstrations, he tries it himself, and before long, he’s lifting up his newly upholstered cushion with pride.
“One down, twenty more to go. More or less.” Angus laughs as he looks around at all the work left to do.
“We better get started then.”
It doesn’t take me long to get lost in my painting. This is all I was looking forward to when we first moved to Brooklyn and now it’s finally happening. The first few hours or so go by in companionable chatter and long stretches of comfortable silence.
That is until I find the record player.
“What’s this?” I say as I open the cabinet further—abandoning my plans to paint it as soon as I see what’s inside.
I haven’t seen a record player like this since I was a kid. Back then, Aimee and I would wheel it out of the dining hall and dance to the old-timey records in the confines of our room.
“You play music on it, Miss Maguire,” Angus replies from his position on the floor beneath a pile of fabric.
I roll my eyes. “I know what a record player is. I’m not that young.”
“You’d be surprised,” Angus mutters to himself before speaking louder. “You can put something on if you’d like.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Careful not to get any paint on them, I begin rifling through the sleeves of records.ABBA… Bob Dylan… Fleetwood Mac… Judy Garland…
My hand snags on a piece of familiar artwork. I stare at the cover in awe as the box in my head cracks open—but this time, the memory of Aimee and me dancing around our bedroom flutters out gently.
I slide the vinyl out, place it gently on the record stand, and play with a few buttons. The whole thing suddenly comes to life and it begins to spin.
The familiar tune fills the room in beautifully warm tones and I can feel the smile spreading on my lips.
“Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell?” There’s a note of respect in Angus’ voice as he recognizes the song.
“You know it?”
“I’m not that old,” he teases back.
I start swaying along to the melody, letting my body relax into the song. For a short moment, it feels like I’m somewhere entirely different. A better time, perhaps.
“Ain’tno mountain high enough…” I murmur in tune before turning to see Angus watching me with a bemused expression. “What?”
“That’s not how you dance to this song,” he points out as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh yeah?” I gesture for him to join me. “Care to show me how it’s done?”
It seems Angus doesn’t need to be told twice. With the enthusiasm of a man half his age, he begins a perfectly executed four-step.
My eyebrows shoot so far up they must disappear in my hairline. “Impressive,” I say as I mimic the move before adding in more contemporary arm movements. “But what about this?”
Angus copies me instantly and with ease. “Is this all they’re teaching you at school these days?”
