Epilogue
Two Summers Later
He had always thought the house looked at its best in the fading light, when the apricot walls seemed to bask in the doting glow of sunset, its turreted tower raised in salute of another day done. So many hours, and weeks, and months he’d spent here, and yet this moment, he knew, would be the one he recalled with most pleasure.
The patio was busy with people, a blur of voices, of colour, of glasses clinking. A surge of feeling rose, and he caught it in his mind, examined it, searching for anything that might trigger a response. But there was nothing to concern him, no discernible emotion, save for joy. He was in a safe place. These were his people.
Vows had been traded, flowers arranged, a cake cut, and speeches made. His father had talked of strong foundations, his mother of deep roots. To him, however, there could be no better metaphor for life than art. Just as one might gaze at a painting every day and find something new to admire, so his parents found endless things to love about each other. They were a masterpiece not solely on the surface but below it, too, in the layers of oil and light, each imperfection conjuring its own brand of magic.
How lucky he was to have them.
Below him in the village, a church bell began to chime, followed closely by a second, as if one had called out and the other answered. The mountains smouldered in the east and while he could not see it, he knew the water far below would be sparkling.
They had walked along the shoreline that morning, the pair of them, stopping often to scavenge or dig; sand between toes and ice cream for breakfast; flowers picked, and the names of birds taught; her hand holding his, trusting him, needing him, loving him.
She had made him complete.
Moving away from the group, he took the steps down as far as the lemon tree and settled himself carefully on the low stone wall, content to watch from a distance as dispersing slivers of heat danced to nature’s song. His eye caught that of his mother, and she came towards him, the limp she’d inherited two summers ago now so slight that it was close to being forgotten.
‘Do you want me to take Valentina?’ she asked. ‘Give you a break?’
For so much of their lives, she had spoken to him staccato; now, her voice was honey.
Luke looked down at his sister, sleeping so peacefully in his arms.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and smiled. ‘We’re both exactly where we want to be.’
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