Chapter 3

It was late when I finally steered the jeep towards home. I'd started another painting in one of the abandoned classrooms and got lost in the sweetness of the solitude.

Traffic was minimal, and I could feel myself starting to relax the further I left the college grounds behind me. Once I was out of the inner city, a fine sheen of mist began billowing over the fields, and the cold windshield turned opaque at the edges. True darkness was still a couple of hours away, but the heavy clouds in the sky announced that a bleary weather stretch was about to hit Providence.

When I parked in front of the family house, the familiar crunch of the gravel driveway rang in my ears. The air outside was cool, and I inhaled the smell of cedars as I walked toward the front of the large two-story building. Its shape was almost romantic. Elongated and large, its white planking, grey schist tiles, and bluish framed windows possessed a timeless elegance. The chimney was made from red brick and stuck out of the roof as if making a statement, not disturbing the wooden facade or the old-fashioned door frames.

I caught a whiff of the familiar smell of cherry smoke upon crossing the threshold. Over the years, the scent of Frank's tobacco had taken permanent residence in the old walling, so much so that it almost seemed to be a part of the house.

Some people found it weird that I lived with my grandfather, but it was always nice to come home to someone. I had been young when my mother, my brother Charlie and I emigrated here from England, but this house had become the haven of my childhood. Even if the melancholy was never far away now.

The door creaked when it fell closed. I let my car keys drop onto the side table, next to a picture of a young Charlie and I in skiing clothes. Frank wouldn't be back for another hour or two. I hadn't seen him at all yesterday. The family landscaping business Hale Hale always had him working odd hours. I was no better, really.

In the kitchen, I turned on the old-fashioned chandelier before settling down at the large yew table to do some leftover admin work. My unconventional work schedule was the only reason I'd been able to sub in as a teacher, but the additional lectures were putting a strain on my time. I was preaching to Frank to be more mindful, to take some more walks down to the lighthouse that he loved so much, but I'd do well not to drop any of the balls I was juggling.

Without being asked, a flash of Casey's French painter surged through my brain. I vividly remembered her melodious laugh and how it had transformed her whole face.

It was the grandfather clock in the living room that forced me out of my thoughts. The stringent ringing announced that I better get a move on. I sighed and drew my laptop closer.

Two hours of paperwork later, I sat at the dinner table with Frank. Stifling a yawn, I rubbed my eyes. On days like these, my appreciation for good coffee was even more fervent than my appreciation for solitude. My grandfather was as chatty as always, though. Today his regular plaid shirt was blue and white, and though his short hair had long since whitened, his bushy eyebrows were still a curious brown-red.

"I heard you met Ms Renaud in front of the gallery yesterday?I thought the grand opening for the exhibit was only in three weeks?" he asked.

"Just how did you hear about my run-in with her?"

He just grinned at me and waggled his impressive brows.

I shook my head. "Why am I even asking? It still is, last I checked."

"Well, don't let me drag it out of you! Is she as beautiful as the press make her out to be?"

Is the Pope Catholic?

"It appears so," I mumbled with a shrug and took another bite from my chocolate pancakes. They had turned out especially great today, or maybe I just always ate them with a particular dose of relief because they weren't one of Frank's hopeless attempts. His stubborn independence streak had caused more than one mishap in the time we'd lived together, and even his best intentions failed to cut it whenever he'd set the kitchen on fire.

"And was she nice?"

"She was. A little aloof, but I suppose that's not surprising."

"No, I wouldn't think so." The old man scratched his shaven chin in thought. "She's probably just a private person. And who can blame her? Her family is far too well-known for much anonymity. The Renauds have always been in the spotlight. Even I know, and I never read the papers. Besides … we both know what it feels like to be under scrutiny."

I blinked in surprise. It was rare he brought up that particular topic. When things got really bad with my father, we'd often caught people staring, whispering behind our backs. Especially because it was always Frank who picked me up when Mum couldn"t get out of work or drive me places. Later, in my teenage years, he was the rock I clung to in the storm of recurring nightmares. He knew everything about me, everything except one little detail I'd failed to mention over the years.

Coming out is the last thing I want to think about right now.

"Well, did you get to talk about her art or the exhibit at least?" Frank continued. "I know how much you're looking forward to seeing it."

His question made me give him an admonishing look. "I talked to the woman for two minutes in passing, and even if I hadn't, I sincerely doubt she would tell me all about what she's working on. Especially if it's one of her family's traditional centrepieces."

"Well, that certainly explains why the media loves them so." He paused to sip his coffee with a thoughtful look in his blue eyes. "It'll be interesting to see what Casey's Renaud comes up with. All those artsy traditions aside, though, at the end of the day she's just a person, Sam. You never know. Maybe given the chance, she'd like to talk a bit more."

While he said that, his eyes became slightly unfocused, and he stared into his coffee with a smirk. I felt the corners of my mouth move upwards. "Is that so? Are you sure you're not projecting right now?"

"Projecting?"

"Yeah, projecting. Assuming that Emmanuelle Renaud has the desire to become friends with a virtual stranger. Like you have with our neighbour Martha."

He sat down his coffee with a clonk, bushy eyebrows drawing together. "Martha? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Come on! Don't think I haven't noticed how you're always purposefully walking past her house when she's watering the flowers outside, hoping to engage her in conversation."

"She's new to the neighbourhood. It's just the nice thing to do," Frank defended, but his ears turned pink.

I laughed. "Is that what they're calling it these days? If you want to get acquainted, you shouldn't skulk around her house for no reason. She'll end up thinking you're a burglar."

"I was on my way to Dr Rollings to get my teeth checked!"

"Threetimes in the last week?"

"It's called being responsible!" With a grumble, he patted his breast pocket for his pipe, a clear sign of nervousness.

I leaned back and folded my hands under my chin. "And your interest has, of course, nothing at all to do with the delicious-smelling cookies she's been handing out to the neighbour's kids, right?"

"Well, it does always smell great when I happen to pass by the open window." The pink crept from his ears toward his cheeks when he realised what he'd just admitted, but then he indignantly shook his head. "But,anyway, that's not why I want to be friendly. She … she just seems like a nice person, you know? And … it's been a bit too quiet since Rudy moved to Pasadena, that's all."

And she's certainly easier on the eyes than that old coot, too.

But then his words fully sank in, and I started to feel bad for my jibe. It was clear that he missed his old fishing buddy by the way he was always eyeing his old rods with a forlorn look. There was nothing wrong with him wanting to become friends with the new neighbour.

"You're right. She does seem like a nice person. And maybe she just needs to settle in first before she starts getting acquainted with folks, which is best helped along by giving her a little space…"

He nodded thoughtfully, as if it hadn't occurred to him. I just hoped that he would ease up on his "accidental" encounters. Frank was about as subtle as a derailing train, and I didn't want him to scare her off. Still, when my eyes trekked over his trademark button-down, I had to smile. I wondered if Martha had already caught on to his obsession with everything plaid.

She'd soon find out that whenever he had a bad day, you could find him visiting the lighthouse.

The old man changed the subject. "Did I tell you that we can finally start with the work for that client Casey referred to us?" Light brown strands swished as I shook my head. "Mr Taylor called this morning, giving me the details. Turns out the location will be one of them beach houses standing on that wide plateau."

I whistled through my teeth. "Interesting."

"Want to check it out tomorrow?"

"I have an afternoon lecture, and I'd like to work some more on a new project," I answered, my expression turning thoughtful. "The day after?"

"Sure, sure. I bet Harry is keeping you busy. Can't be so bad if you have time for doing some painting, though."

My old mentor was thin as a beanstalk but had cultivated a moustache that matched his impressive knowledge about art. Harry knew more about it than anyone else I knew. He would have loved for me to share my art with the world, but he'd always respected my decision not to. Instead, he'd somehow managed to make me agree to sub in as a teacher.

Remembering Lacie made me grimace. "Teaching has been … an interesting experience."

Frank chuckled. "It's the RISD, dear. You should take it as a compliment. There is a reason that he suggested you for filling the position."

"Temporary position," I corrected.

"Semantics," Frank said.

He took out his Sherlock pipe and started filling the well-worn instrument with tobacco. He always had a smoke after dinner. I thought about how my grandmother had always done the dishes, quietly humming to herself, while he had his smoke. The scent of sweetened cherry tobacco filled the air. Frank rubbed over the side of the pipe fondly before taking another puff. Maybe he had just remembered, too.

I got up to put our plates into the dishwasher. The age of the machine, more than anything else, broadcasted from how long ago those memories stemmed.

"I'm happy you're trying something new. Don't leave me for the better pastures of academia, though," he joked.

"What, and leave all those lovely rhododendrons to you? I would never."

I didn't know how often we'd done this over the years, or how many projects we'd brought to a close. But it was little things like those that I treasured. Contentment. Peace. Knowing exactly where I belonged. I didn't need anything more than that.

Not even if certain things gave me a tugging in my mid-section that I couldn't quite seem to forget.