Chapter 6

I parked in front of the house of our newest clients a little after ten. Judging by the other van in the driveway, the rest of the crew was already here. Today, we'd begin the superficial excavation. The owner wanted his garden to have a Chinese touch and pebbles instead of grass. For that, the first layer of earth had to go.

The sun was poking out, making me pull my gold-tinted sunglasses out of the glove compartment, glad I had slipped into the work coverall with the short sleeves.

The client's home was a beautiful building that seemed surprisingly spacious for a beach house. Large windows graced the grey wooden fa?ade, which was topped by black roof tiles. The view of the shoreline must be breath-taking from here. All the properties on the street looked extremely classy.

A middle-aged man with almond-shaped eyes opened the door and led me through the house towards the garden. Frank and two other staff, Mason and Lillian, had already started excavating. My eyes surveyed the site.

On the left sat a row of mid-sized hedges that denoted the border of the property. It already sported some gaps where specimens had been uprooted. There was also a low, decorative brick wall in front of it that led to a tall oak tree. A small mountain of grass-infused dirt was piling up at its wide base.

After talking with the crew for a few minutes, I started removing patches of lawn around the tree, content that the others would take care of the right side of the property and leave me to work on my own.

While I worked, the wind ruffled my hair, pulling loose some of my wayward strands. Around me yellow and red leaves gracefully twirled and rolled, swept away with every new breeze. Saltwater hung in the air, and I inhaled the familiar scent, digging my hands into the earth and enjoying the feel of it on my skin. A deep sense of peace descended on me.

I must've spent at least two hours digging before the owner's kid, a young boy of five or six, started playing with his kite on the untouched area of the lawn. Like a feather in the wind, the kite cut a random path through the air, bobbing up and down with the strong gusts. The sun made its vibrant colours shine, even through my sunglasses, with the deep red of its main body glowing against the backdrop of the cloudless sky. A long line of silver ribbons trailed after it.

The sight brought a smile to my face that dropped when the line of ribbons tangled in the branches of the oak. With the next breeze, the kite crashed into the leaves and vanished.

I wiped my hands over my thighs to get the worst of the dirt off. The boy was close to tears when I stepped up next to him to stare into the crown of the tree.

"You got a ladder here somewhere? We didn't bring any today."

He shook his head, mouth quivering, and I felt compelled to lightly pat his shoulder. "Don't worry, at least it didn't fly away."

I stepped onto the brick wall and approached the tree trunk. With a carefully measured jump, I scaled it, mindful to use the small grooves for traction.

The first few feet were easy-going, mainly because the ground still felt close, but the higher I got the more my palms started to sweat.

Just don't look down.

I came to the first big branch and hauled myself up. Crouching, I then carefully straightened again to reach for the next one. And the next. I could now clearly make out the stark colours of the kite. Pieces of bark loosened from under my grasping hands and fell to the ground.

It's not even all that high up, surely. My eyes, the traitors, dropped down. Okay, shit, that's high!

With a gulp, I hurriedly forced my face upwards again.

You can do this. Imagine you're Salvador Dalí in a diver's suit. You're tough and brave.

The inner pep talk ringing in my ears, I finally reached the first silver ribbon. But tugging on the line didn't make the kite budge. "Come on," I pressed through my teeth, one hand curled around the trunk while the other tugged with all its strength.

It still didn't budge.

Mumbling words I would have caught a wooden spoon for in my youth, I wrapped the line around one hand and started to ascend again.

Suddenly, a strange sound reached my ear. I stopped. The wind rustled the leaves again. I faintly heard someone adding to the dirt pile below with a wheelbarrow. Otherwise, nothing.

Probably imagined it.

As I climbed higher, my throat tightened a bit more. The branches became thinner, and it was difficult to hear anything but my own breathing. I clung to the last narrow branch like it was a lifeline, reasonably sure it could still support me. Then I tugged again with all my strength, and, as if the universe had finally decided to show mercy, the kite came hurtling through the twigs.

With a relieved sigh, I started to climb back down. I was on the second to last branch when I heard that strange noise again.

I froze.

Does it sound … closer?

I wrinkled my forehead in confusion and wanted to reach for the last branch when the sound rang out from right behind my ear. My head whipped around.

A big, black magpie sat on a branch just behind me.

Crap, just what I need right now—the nastiest and most vicious jerk of all birds!

God knew what its intentions were, but it wasn't going to be helpful. Something in its beady little eyes seemed … greedy.

"Nice magpie," I whispered at it while carefully straightening out my leg to the last branch, a little concerned about how close it was. "Sweet magpie."

The bird hopped forward a little on its branch, its eyes locked on the kite. Urgency ran through me as I hurriedly released the silvery line to let the toy fall to the ground, doing everything to make myself less of a target.

"Let's be friends, you and me. You over here, me on the ground."

Where there's a fair amount of distance between us.

I finally felt the surface of the branch against my foot and lowered myself. I took my eyes off the bird for just one second … The next moment, it was gone.

"Are you alright up there?" hollered Frank from the other side of the garden.

"Yeah!" I yelled back, feeling relieved, "everything is f—"

A big feathery ball flew into my face. Yipping in surprise, my hands abandoned their grip as I ripped them up to wrestle the bird away. It screeched, making me flinch, and flapped its wings before taking a swipe with sharp claws. I jerked back. My sunglasses slid half off my face.

Shit, it wants my glasses? I thought it was after the kite!

The magpie screeched again and gripped the frame in its beak. I shot out a hand, damned if I was submitting to that thieving snake. My foot slipped on the bark, and my centre of gravity shifted. I toppled forward. Flailing, branches scratched at me before I landed in the pile of dug-up earth with a resounding thud. It cushioned my fall, but calling it a gentle landing would have pushed it.

Ouch. And again, ouch.

It took a few seconds before my head stopped ringing. Gingerly, I moved my limbs. Then I sat up. My left shoulder pulsed unhappily. If that didn't bruise, I'd eat Frank's pipe. Speaking of. I glanced up, expecting a sea of concerned faces, but instead found the old man, Mason, and Lillian almost doubling over with laughter. I huffed in annoyed embarrassment.

Hilarious. Douchebags! It's only a few feet, but come on!

I brushed the dirt off my coverall. Then I looked around. The magpie was nowhere in sight—my sunglasses weren't either.

Lovely.

I frowned. Wait. Where was the boy? I finally saw him standing between the hedges, in one of the gaps that led to the adjacent property. I carefully got up and walked over, mystified as to what he was doing there. Once I got closer, I could see that a person was crouched before him.

Must be the neighbour.

When the woman noticed me approach, she straightened up, and an amused smile flitted over her face. I did a double take, feeling my stomach tighten.

Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

When I openly grimaced, Ms Renaud laughed melodiously. But upon noting the dirt, she sobered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. Based on the merriment, I figured it wasn't too bad, but that still looked like it hurt. Are you okay?"

I sheepishly waved her off. "Just the shoulder's a bit bruised."

And maybe my ego.

"Well, it looked heroic enough."

"I certainly hope so." I grinned shyly.

"Maybe next time don't get into a fight with a magpie?"

"No, next time don't wear golden-rimmed sunglasses when you climb into a tree. It's obviously a recipe for disaster."

We both chuckled and, for a second, I was elated we could have such a normal conversation without me feeling as if my foot was in my mouth. But then the intensity of her green eyes registered, and her long eyelashes, and how the wind played with the strands of her wavy hair. My thoughts scrambled. What on earth was she doing here?

The boy twitched at my coverall, drawing my attention to his kite. "Do you think it will fly again?" For the first time, I noted the long diagonal rip in the patterned fabric, and how the kid's lips were pursed in disappointment.

Must have tugged too hard. Damn.

"May I?" Ms Renaud gestured towards the kite.

The boy hesitantly handed it over. Both our gazes followed curiously when the tall woman in the paint-covered shirt vanished into the house, only to return with a roll of duct tape. Gifting us a charming grin, she proceeded to repair the kite.

"There's nothing that can't be fixed with duct tape," she added conspiratorially.

At that moment I fell a little bit in love with her. Who would have guessed the famous painter ran around in paint-spattered clothes, without makeup and completely unguarded? Who would have thought she was so down-to-earth?

The kid gave a brilliant smile once he held the kite in his hands again and ran off, his exuberance making both of us chuckle again. Her gaze wandered back to me afterward, making me very conscious of my grungy clothes and the dirt on my skin. I was pretty sure I didn't look as great in my work outfit as she did in hers.

"I didn't think we would meet again quite this soon, Samantha Hale." Her cheeks dimpled in a way that should be deemed illegal.

I rubbed the back of my neck at the playful tone, embarrassed at being called by my full name. "Sam, please."

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm not a fan of my full name," I explained. "So … Sam is fine."

There was a long pause, but then her gaze grew softer. "Emmanuelle, then."

My eyes widened in horror. "I didn't mean to…"

She lifted a slender hand. "I know, but I'd like to offer it anyway."

A little bashful, I nodded and gestured towards the house. "You live here?"

"What gave it away?" She smirked. "My family owns this beach house. It's the first time I've set foot in it, actually, but it was convenient with the exhibit being held in Providence. And I have to admit it's quite beautiful here."

"I'm glad you like it. I hope our work isn't disturbing you?"

Her gaze wandered back to what she could spy through the hedges. "Not at all." She paused and regarded me curiously. "But I didn't know you worked at a landscaping company."

"How could you? We didn't really have a lot of time to talk."

Huh, you're almost managing to have a normal conversation. Good one. Good adulting.

"We should remedy that," Emmanuelle said. "Maybe then you could also explain to me why there is such a lilting quality to your accent. Would you like some iced tea?"

I blinked, surprised at her offer."We're almost done for the day, so I have a few minutes before we pack up. I have to warn you though"—I indicated my outfit—"I'm more than a little grimy. No clean clothes left in the boot, either, I'm afraid."

"Sometimes it's cathartic to get your hands dirty." She gestured at the colourful specks on her shirt. "The floor is full of paint anyway, don't worry."

My stomach did a weird flip flop, and I trailed Emmanuelle into the house. It was a friendly and bright space, though barely looked lived in. There was only a slim mahogany desk standing on the right, sporting some binders and her iPad. The gadget almost disappeared under a collection of neon-green Post-its full of hasty scribbles, while the folder labels read in a row: IMPORTANT, What Jackson Thinks Important, EVERYTHING ELSE.

I swallowed my amusement and focused on the only other object in the room—her easel. Its canvas was covered by a linen sheet showing a beautiful mural of azure, indigo, and midnight blue. If the artist and I had nothing else in common, we at least seemed to share a similar colour preference. There were plastic covers with paint spots all over the beautiful oak floor.

Emmanuelle went into the kitchen and came back with a tall glass. I accepted it gratefully. "Thank you."

I still couldn't believe she'd invited me in. Most news reporters would've probably killed for the chance to get into this house, any house her family owned, really, to get a glimpse of what lay inside.

"You're welcome," she answered casually.

The easel stuck out like a sore thumb, but I decided not to ask about the covered painting. I strongly sympathized if it was done for privacy, and it wasn't any of my business, so I gestured vaguely with my hand. "So, uh … this is … really nice."

"You mean the spilled paint, spartan walls, and any absence of paraphernalia?"

"What? No! Of course not!"

At my comically wide eyes, she cracked up. "I'm joking. God, you're easy."

I blushed and hid behind my iced tea.

The dimples in her cheeks stayed, but she touched my arm in apology. "The space is nice. But my parents only just finished renovating. I might go ahead and pick out some furniture while I'm here. And make sure they solve the hiccup of always losing my mail." She paused before pointing outside. "I've started falling in love with the view from up here and … how friendly the people are."

The look on her face was indecipherable, though her tone had been a tad mischievous again, and the ensuing silence made me start to fidget. I clanked the glass painfully against my front teeth when I wanted to take the last sip.

Jesus, you're awkward. It's a miracle she hasn't called the awkward police on you. Several offenses already. You'd go away for years!

I didn't know if Emmanuelle caught my discomfort or not, but her next question had me almost drop my glass: "So, who are you really, Sam?"

I nervously wet my lips, not sure what she was really asking. "I work for my grandfather's landscaping company, and sometimes I help Casey out with an exhibit."

"And sometimes you just pretend to be the secretary when a situation turns dire? You pretty much saved the day, you know? That critic is a terrible busybody."

I blinked. So it had been gratitude that I'd seen on her face.

"Just looking out for my friend," I finally said, "and making sure the exhibit is going to be about the art and not about the gossip."

"I appreciate that." There was a new kind of respect in her eyes, her expression one of strong agreement. "Thank you." She hesitated, but curiosity then appeared to get the better of her. "So your accent…"

I made a circling motion with the hand holding the glass. "Noticed that, didn't you? I have to admit to being somewhat of a foreign plant myself. I moved here from England when I was seven."

"That makes a lot of sense. The way you emphasise some words doesn't quite match, and I don't know any American who says ‘boot.'" She chuckled. "You miss the UK?"

"Sometimes," I allowed, not prepared to dive deeper into the topic.

We both watched the light fall into the room through the tall windows.

"It must be amazing to paint in this light," I noted absently. Her head swivelled toward me in surprise, but then we heard Frank calling my name. "I'm sorry, I think that's my cue. Thank you for the iced tea. I promise, next time it's gonna be me paying you back for that coffee I made you drop."

She snickered lightly, lifting her hand in farewell, and the tinkling tune caused that tugging in my stomach again. I inwardly cursed the reaction. I better get a grip. Yes, she'd invited me inside, but this was now the third time we'd met and there was still no indication she was anything other than straight. Friendly but straight.

Not that it matters one single bit, Sam.

Back on the porch, something made me turn around to glance back inside. Maybe I wanted to catch sight of her again to convince myself that I hadn't just dreamed this encounter, or maybe I wanted to commit some small part of her to memory. My heart was gripped by the view like nothing else had managed in a long while.

Emmanuelle Renaud sat before the painting, still as a statue. Her dark hair cascaded down one of her shoulders, flowing like a stream towards her forearms, bare and porcelain from rolled-up sleeves. A delicate hand gripped the picture's wooden frame as the other held a poised brush, its tip hovering, twitching, just a hairsbreadth from the canvas. It seemed locked in thought, lost in another world, a mirror of her face.

That night was the first night that I sketched her, losing track of time and completely oversleeping the next morning. Only when I was sitting behind the wheel on my way to class, momentarily blinded by the rising sun, did I even remember my missing sunglasses.