Chapter 8 Jackson
Jackson
Life at Amity Court was proving aggravating in ways Jackson hadn’t anticipated.
He’d expected to find the isolation, lack of facilities, and unwanted tenant frustrating, to say the least. But, even worse, Leah had turned out to be annoyingly easy company.
When he expected her to pester him with questions or needle him with her presence, she was a surprising mixture of chatty and quiet.
Yes, she was untidy. He was forever falling over her shoes and she left half-finished glasses of water everywhere.
Scraps of paper littered most surfaces, covered in random fragments of pencil sketches.
An eye here, some lips there. And was that a twisted crown of flames?
They intrigued him, even as he forced himself to huff when he added yet another one to the pile on the dining table.
“If I ever need to find you, I’ll just follow the paper trail you leave behind,” he groused.
Leah raised an eyebrow. “When might you need to find me, Jackson? I thought I was the soggy lettuce in your taco.”
She was right. And yet she was wrong at the same time.
Somehow, he found himself looking forward to the smile she gave him each morning.
There was an ease in the gradual familiarity of knowing that she’d appear in the kitchen around half past eight, twisting her curls into either a ponytail or a careless heap on the top of her head.
She was always a riot of color, dressed for comfort and warmth in a hodgepodge of clothing.
Jackson felt stuffy and buttoned-up in comparison, wearing the smart pants and shirt he tugged on by rote, Monday through Friday.
He wanted to cling to his exasperation, but Leah made it difficult to remember she’d been foisted on him by the circumstances.
She was upbeat, thoughtful, and friendly—when he gave her the slightest opportunity.
She didn’t seem like someone to take advantage of an elderly lady; she’d clearly been extremely fond of his grandmother.
In fact, she was infuriatingly appealing. And the only way he knew how to deal with her was to avoid her as much as possible.
“Can I ask you something?” she’d say, opening one of the granola bars she seemed to think counted as a meal.
“Got a call coming through in a minute.” He cut her off every time. Other times he’d just leave the room without answering.
If it was important, he assumed she’d try harder.
And it wasn’t just her he avoided. Jackson turned his evasion of Hazel and Marjorie into an art form.
When they knocked at the kitchen door, he escaped through the hallway.
If they came to the front door, he disappeared upstairs or into the backyard.
He didn’t want to field their questions on his family or hear them reminisce about his grandmother.
It stirred up a black and murky swirl of something too closely linked with guilt in his belly, and he had enough to deal with already.
Over the next three weeks, electricians, plumbers, and heating engineers came in to overhaul the ancient systems. A new boiler was installed, and every time he took a steamy shower, Jackson offered up a prayer of thanks to his efficient team of tradespeople.
Amity Court would never be considered cozy through the winter months, but the improved central heating was already making it way more comfortable.
And in the evenings, when everyone left and the house fell quiet again, he found the secluded location of the grand old house a balm on his overwound senses. It provided a barrier between himself and his father’s domineering presence, and the relief was immeasurable.
Feel the peace, his grandmother’s letter had said. Jackson understood the invitation a little more as each day went by.
He felt a connection to the property he’d never expected.
His fingers itched with the desire to save it from disrepair and breathe new life into its rooms. And with long-forgotten memories of his brother in almost every corner of the house, he felt closer to Dominic than he had in years.
But every day, his father reminded him of the loan and his responsibilities.
Every day, Jackson passed Leah on the stairs or in the kitchen and, even as he grew more used to her company, he resented her contribution to this mess.
They continued to circle each other in the house like satellites.
But then, after he’d ordered a delivery of logs, Jackson found the living room fire too much of a draw to resist after dark, and the grip he had on his reserve weakened.
Despite knowing Leah would gravitate toward it as well, he craved the warmth and relaxation of staring into the flames with something mindless on TV for just an hour or two.
The night before his month at Amity Court was due to end and he could finally go home, Jackson lounged in an armchair, flipping through the channels, freshly showered and brain-weary.
He heard the microwave ping as Leah heated up a portion of something that smelled delicious.
She appeared in the doorway as the opening credits of a movie began rolling onscreen.
“Mind if I join you?” There was a tentative note in her query.
He shot her a sideways glance and grunted. Leah took it for acceptance.
“What’s on?”
“Geostorm. Have you seen it?”
She shook her head.
“A global network of satellites breaks down and creates a storm that threatens to wipe out the Earth.”
“Hell, yes. I’m in.” She curled up at the end of the couch and speared a forkful of meatloaf.
An unspoken truce settled between them. She seemed to understand his need to decompress, keeping her chatter to a minimum. He reined back the sharp retorts. It was . . . nice.
After nearly an hour, Jackson paused the movie to make a grilled cheese, and Leah followed him to the kitchen with her plate.
“Do you enjoy your work?” Her question was unexpected.
Jackson shrugged. “It’s the family business.”
“What’s the best thing about it?”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped to think. “I like seeing things come together. It’s satisfying to see a plan through to the finished product.”
Leah looked surprised that he’d answered. “And what do you not like?”
Jackson frowned as he heated a skillet on the stovetop. “I don’t get to work the tools day to day. I’d like to be more hands-on. And working with my father can be . . . challenging.”
“Families, huh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” she said, as if she identified with the struggle.
Clearing her throat, she twisted a hammered silver ring on her thumb.
“Would this be a good time to bring up my living arrangements?” Leah met his scowl and rushed on.
“The thing is, I have it in writing from Esther that I can stay here while I’m working on the book.
Her agent wants the final manuscript as soon as it’s transcribed.
And then there will be the edits to make, which I can maybe do .
. . I don’t know. I write a monthly newsletter.
Did you know that? And I’ve got a marketing plan and all the social media to keep up to date.
I understand you’ll sell Amity Court as soon as you can, but I’d like to live here until then.
I’m already looking around for somewhere else to go after that. ”
She took a breath—mainly because she had to, he imagined—and then held it, hanging on Jackson’s response. He was surprised it had taken her this long to raise the topic.
“Esther left enough money to pay your wages until her last book is complete,” he said finally, picking up his plate. “You can stay until the house sells, but I’m hoping that won’t be long.”
He left out any mention of the gift he was supposed to give her from the proceeds, or the fact that he’d been given no real choice about her living at Amity Court. He’d keep his cards close to his chest for now.
Leah exhaled a sigh of relief and trailed him back into the living room. “Thanks, Jackson. That’s a weight off my mind.”
“No need for thanks. If it was up to me, I’d have evicted you.” He wasn’t sure it was true anymore but it wouldn’t do to show any weakness. That lesson had been hammered into him more times than he could remember.
Jackson ate his sandwich, threw another log on the fire, and tipped his head back against the couch cushion as the movie played on.
Weariness weighed down his eyelids. To the backdrop of a panicked cast trying to outrun the weather, he was a few moments shy of dozing off when Leah picked up her phone and a small plastic pen and began to draw.
“What’s that?”
“Hmm?” She glanced up.
“What are you drawing now?” His voice was drowsy, dulled at the edges.
“Just playing around with some character art.” She tilted her head to squint at her screen.
“What for?” He reconsidered the question. “And what’s character art?”
“It’s a picture representation of the characters in a story.
” Leah swiped the stylus in smooth feathery strokes.
“When I set up social media accounts for Esther to promote her books, I found that posts with character art are really popular, so I gave it a go. They’re pretty amateur but Esther wanted to use them, and the feedback’s been good. ”
“Can I see?”
She hesitated but passed him her phone. “I haven’t rendered this one yet, so it’s still pretty rough. And I only use a free art app I downloaded, which isn’t exactly cutting-edge. It would be better on an iPad—”
“Who is it?”
“Clayborn Knight.”
Jackson examined the drawing. The man’s features were sharp and brooding. He was glancing over one shoulder, as if caught by surprise, and Leah had captured intelligence and suspicion in his eyes. He looked like someone who wouldn’t miss much.
“You’re very talented.”
She blinked at the compliment. “Thanks.”
His eyes slid away as he handed Leah her cell and the moment passed. He turned back to the movie, grateful for the distraction. She resumed drawing.
The month he’d been dreading had slid by faster than he’d expected. Nothing had changed, and yet things felt different. Jackson was torn between duty and a creeping sense of contentment he was unwilling to give up.