Chapter 13 #2
“Honestly? It hasn’t exactly been easy.” I roll the mug between my palms. “And I know this is unprofessional, but... he’s just so moody all the time.
” God, it feels good to admit it out loud.
And apparently I’m not done because the next words tumble out too: “You both seem normal enough. How do you put up with him?”
Struan and Douglas exchange a look.
“Maybe his grumpiness has something to do with a very pretty young American suddenly living in his back garden.” Struan grins and waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.
I snort before I can stop myself. Still, my stomach flips at the idea. “Right. If he liked me, he’d actually talk to me like a human being instead of brushing me off.”
As Granny would’ve put it, I’m simply not the man’s cup of tea.
“Lachlan’s always been private,” Douglas offers. “Work, home, his boy, his dog. That’s his world. Other than these Pit meetups, he’s not really integrated since he moved here. Maybe the gruffness is just him adjusting to someone new in his space.”
Right, so he’s private. Likes his own space. Still doesn’t give him the right to be rude.
“Maybe you could coax him out more,” Struan suggests brightly. “You know... socialise the beast.”
Inwardly, I scoff. Yeah, definitely not in my job description.
I’m saved from replying when pandemonium erupts, courtesy of the twins.
Rosie ignores the golden rule of one-off-one-on and barrels down the slide on Isla’s heels, colliding with her and bumping the glucose monitor on her arm.
At the same time Logan decides to scale the jungle gym from the outside and manages to wedge his foot straight through the netting.
For a few frantic minutes we’re all scrambling.
Struan checks Isla’s sensor, carefully peeling back the adhesive to make sure it’s still secure—it is.
I steady Logan while Douglas frees his foot and gets him down.
Then Douglas gives both twins a firm scolding.
They mumble what sound like apologies before skipping back into the fray, unfazed.
“Those two, honestly,” Douglas mutters as he drops back into his seat. “The holidays have barely started and already they’ve worn my folks ragged. Summer’s off to a flying start.”
I remember Ellie saying his wife comes and goes as she pleases, which basically means Douglas is raising two mischievous kids as a single parent. Can’t be easy.
A tap on my shoulder pulls me from my musings. I turn to find Finn grinning at me, slightly out of breath.
“Tig, you’re it!” he announces. “Catch me if you can!”
Before I can protest, he’s off like a shot, Logan, Rosie, and Isla shouting for me to chase them as they tear after him.
You don’t need to be a linguistic genius to guess that “tig” must be what I’d call “tag”. I know how this game works.
“Oh, you better believe I’ll catch you,” I call, pushing back from the table and giving chase.
“Good luck!” Douglas shouts after me.
“We’ll send in backup if you get stuck!” Struan adds with a laugh.
And despite the mayhem, the awful coffee, and the sticky floors, I’m grinning as I run after four giggling children through the play maze.
Maybe the Pit isn’t so bad after all.
The bell over the library door gives a polite little jingle as we troop inside. After the Pit, the hush in here feels like air conditioning for my ears.
“Blair! What a nice surprise,” Ellie calls from the desk, smiling. “And you brought company today. Welcome, everyone.”
The kids chorus a distracted “hi” before bolting for the children’s section. Struan and Douglas nod their greetings then peel off toward the shelves. I go over to chat with Ellie.
“I’ve actually got something to show you,” she says. She ducks below the counter and comes up with a black-and-white printout from an old newspaper, which she slides across to me. “Found this yesterday when I was poking through the digitised archives.”
A school photo fills most of the page: three neat rows of children, girls in pinafores and cardigans, boys in blazers and shorts. Their names are printed below in faded typewriter font.
“Oh my God,” I say. “Is that my?—”
“ This book is all about bogies! ” Logan’s voice booms across the library like a foghorn.
Douglas winces. “Indoor voice, mate!” Then, in a quick whisper toward the desk, sheepish as anything, “Sorry, Ellie.”
Ellie’s cheeks go pink as she waves it off—adorably flustered—and I catch the way she fusses with a pile of bookmarks. Huh. Sweet.
But then my attention snaps back to the photo, and I see her. Front row, second from the left. My granny. Pigtails, gap-toothed grin, mischief glinting in her eyes. A fragment of her life from long before she could have imagined emigrating to Canada.
“That’s her!” I say, surprised at how choked up I feel. “Oh my God, Ellie. Thank you so much for finding this.”
Finn appears at my elbow, a picture book tucked under one arm. “What’re you looking at?”
“A photo of my granny when she was little, about your age.” I point her out. “She went to the same school you go to.”
His eyes widen. “Really? Maybe she drew pictures just like I do and they’re still on the walls somewhere!”
“Um... maybe. Probably not, but she’d have played in your schoolyard, maybe even sat in your classroom.”
“Wow,” Finn says. “That’s cool.”
“What have you got there?” Ellie nods at the book Finn is carrying.
“It’s a storybook. I want Blair to read it to me and the others. She’s really good at reading.”
“Is she now?” Ellie shoots me an amused glance. “Well then, Blair better get reading.”
I carefully slip the sheet into my bag and thank Ellie again before Finn tugs me toward the children’s section. He points me to the bay window seat and settles beside me. Isla and the twins, meanwhile, have already plopped themselves down on beanbags, and now they’re watching me expectantly.
Great, not just Finn this time. A whole audience. All right, let’s do this.
I open to the first page and begin. “Wallace the wildcat woke in his wee den, whiskers twitching and tummy rumbling...”
I don’t make a production out of it, just enough rhythm to keep them hooked. But within a minute, two kids I don’t even know drift over and plop themselves down, listening in like it’s Storytime at Barnes & Noble. Then another joins. Guess I’m the entertainment today.
And it’s not just the kids. Struan leans against a bookshelf, watching me, amused. Douglas looks grateful for a few minutes of peace. Ellie, at the desk, props her chin in her hand and listens, soft smile in place.
When I finish, there’s a collective little sigh, which in library-speak is basically applause.
“Blair’s writing her own story,” Finn proudly announces to the group. “It’s about an otter.”
“Can we hear that one now?” one of the kids I don’t even know asks.
“Um, no, because it’s not actually finished yet. I’m still working on it.”
“She’s read the start to me, though,” Finn says.
Logan scowls, affronted on principle. “How come Finn gets to hear it and we don’t?”
“Um... Finn’s my test pilot. When it’s ready, you guys can hear it next.”
Logan nods, apparently satisfied with this.
I’m at the kitchen counter preparing a snack for Finn while he sits at the table, tongue caught between his teeth as he draws. His hair is still windswept and his cheeks flushed from our walk on the beach with Gus.
The furball himself sits by my feet, amber eyes fixed on the package of crackers I’m opening.
“Nice try, Gus. I literally fed you an hour ago.” But when he lifts one paw and tilts his head—pure canine innocence—I give in. “Oh, fine. You’re too cute for your own good.”
I toss him a cracker, which he snaps from the air with impressive precision. He then trots off into the hallway to eat it like he’s afraid I might change my mind. Not a chance, buddy. That ship sailed the moment it hit your mouth.
I set Finn’s plate—crackers with cheese and apple slices—on the table and sit beside him with a mug of camomile tea. It’s already past two. Less than two hours until Lachlan gets home.
“That’s a brilliant drawing, Finn.” I peer at the house he’s sketching—clearly his own, complete with the path down to the pebble beach. “Though I’m curious, why no colours? Your pictures are usually so bright. This one’s all grey.”
“I’m making it black and white, just like your granny’s picture. Then maybe I can trick Da into thinking it’s an old photo too!”
My heart does a little flip. His mission is impossible, sure, but if cuteness could bend the rules of reality, we’d be in business.
“That’s a great idea.”
“You know how the library had a picture of your granny?” Finn says, shading the front door now. “Do you think they might have photos of my mum too?”
Oh.
Finn’s never mentioned his mother to me before. I set my mug down carefully.
“I’m not sure, buddy. Maybe.”
“We have a photo album with pictures of Mum, but Da never takes it out.” He stops drawing and looks up at me hopefully. “Maybe you and I could look at it?”
“Oh, sweetheart... maybe that’s something you and your dad should do together.”
Finn’s face falls. “He won’t want to. He doesn’t like looking at old photos.”
The defeat in his voice is heartbreaking, and I have no idea what to say. It’s not my place to show Finn pictures of his mom, but it hurts to see him like this.
He nibbles at his snack and colours, and the mood slowly rights itself. I think we’ve moved past it. But when I return from a quick trip to the bathroom, I find the kitchen empty, Finn’s drawing abandoned on the table.
“Finn? Where are you?” I check the living room—nope. “Gus?” I call.
At the sound of his name, Gus pads down the stairs. “Where’s Finn, boy?”
He seems to understand because he turns and heads back up. I follow him to the room I know to be Lachlan’s bedroom, though I’ve never set foot in it before.
Finn sits on the floor by an open closet, a photo album in his lap.
“Finn...” I pause at the threshold, aware this is Lachlan’s space, not mine. “That’s a special book. Maybe you should look at it with your dad, yeah?”
He doesn’t acknowledge me, just keeps on looking at the album, his expression awed, almost reverent. But sad too.
I step into the room, following Finn’s gaze to a photograph of a young woman with dark hair and warm brown eyes cradling a baby Finn. He traces the curve of her hair with one small finger.
“Your mom was beautiful,” I say softly.
Finn nods. Gus sinks to the floor beside him and nudges his knee with a damp nose.
“She had your eyes.”
“You think so?” Finn asks, absently running his fingers through the dog’s fur.
“Definitely.”
He turns the page. “Look, Da doesn’t have any grey hair.” Lachlan beams at the camera, a breeze ruffling his hair as he holds infant Finn by the sea. He looks so much younger, though it can’t be more than six years ago.
Finn keeps flipping through the album. I know it isn’t my place to look at these pictures with him, yet I can’t bring myself to stop him.
“I don’t remember much about my mum,” he says after a while, unprompted.
“But sometimes I smell something and it reminds me of her. Like when clothes come out of the washing machine—that smell reminds me of Mum. And sometimes when I’m falling asleep, I remember her singing to me, but I don’t know if that’s real or just something I made up. ”
He studies another page. “I wish... I wish I knew more about her.”
My throat goes tight. All I want is to scoop him up and promise him answers, stories, memories—anything to fill that gap. But I can’t. That’s something only his dad can give him.
I don’t probe, but I get the impression Lachlan hasn’t told Finn much about his mom. And that feels wrong. Even if Finn’s own memories are fuzzy, he deserves to know her through his father’s stories.