Chapter 15
ASHA
“Come again?” Callum asks.
That accent should be illegal, for the effect it has on me. It’s unfair. All lyrical, like he’s reciting a love poem to me even though he’s staring in confusion. Or sometimes in disgust at my advocating of pictures.
“A picnic. I want to see the ruins of St. Dunstan-in-the-East, and I heard it’s a nice spot for a meal.
Unless you already have plans?” Considering I’m still trying to get over the embarrassment of hugging him last night when he wanted to pick something up from the floor, a level of embarrassment far above waving at someone who was waving at the person behind me but below kissing him thinking he was going in for one, I don’t know if I want him to have plans or not.
“No plans. Sure, I’ll picnic with you.” But he says the word picnic like he’s going to a root canal. Not the biggest compliment to me, but I’ll take the yes.
“Great.” Now I have to work on getting past the embarrassment of the hug, and fast. And being pressed against Callum’s chest does kind of make the whole misunderstanding worth it.
Maybe so worth it my subconscious knew he wasn’t going in for a hug but it made me go in anyway.
What a crafty bitch my subconscious is. I can’t argue with the results.
I lead us to an M&S that has a good selection of premade foods like salads and sandwiches, along with fancy charcuterie boards. And wine. Purchases firmly in hand, we get on the Tube and travel to St. Dunstan’s.
It’s a beautiful London day, not too cold or hot, and for once, no clouds in sight. Although I realize that now I’ve thought it, rain clouds will appear and ruin this picnic at some point.
I stop outside the church ruins in the park.
It was built in the Middle Ages in the Gothic style, all pointed arches and tall, soaring windows, and added on to by Christopher Wren.
But then it was damaged in the Blitz, during the war.
London decided not to rebuild, and to make the ruins a garden, adding a lawn, trees and a fountain.
Now, it looks like nature is reclaiming the building, even more than the ruins at Fountains Abbey, with trees planted directly into the ruins and plants that were encouraged to grow on the walls and through the windows that no longer house their colorful stained glass.
“What a beautiful space, made from such a tragedy,” I say.
“Yes. It’s always amazing when buildings survive through time, in whatever form, and interesting how they change in function and in design too.”
“I know you probably don’t get starstruck by all this like I do, having grown up in Ireland, but I’m always amazed by how old everything is here.
Especially compared to America, where, yes, the Mesa Verde Cliff Palaces made by the ancestral Puebloans are from 1190 CE, but it’s an outlier.
Most of the oldest surviving buildings are from 1600 to 1700 CE.
And in California they’re a lot newer than that. ”
“I don’t know about all that. I never lost the magic feeling when I visit the places where history happened. Or seeing the objects that have seen history.”
I smile at him, always amazed when we have the slightest thing in common. And because I kind of want to see his reaction to my smile.
He never reacts like I expect someone to react to a smile. He’s usually angry at the perceived frivolity. But who gets angry at a smile?
Callum does veer from the script a little this time.
Instead of the expected glare, the same one that I have diligently been reminding myself is not a good thing to fantasize about for the past five years, I get something new.
An awkward…not a smile, per se, but a grimace that tends toward enjoyment on the spectrum of joy and sadness. Maybe.
With four years of college classes in analyzing the slightest details in paintings, sculpture and architecture, one would think I had more than the requisite tools to analyze this facial anomaly.
But I’m stumped. Maybe it’s just indigestion?
I would need to study Callum-specific irregularities for an entire four years before I could even begin to decipher that quirk of facial muscles.
I point out an empty spot in the grass and we set up our impromptu picnic, people watching the Londoners and tourists alike who stop in the park for lunch.
If only I could get my picnic partner to talk like he did when we entered the park, it would be a pleasant afternoon.
But it’s been all grunts since then. Apparently, the man doesn’t have much to say when he isn’t discussing history, when he turns into a real chatterbox.
Ah well, I guess I’ll have to pick up all the conversational slack.
In other news, this picnic is helping me get better at characterizing which grunts are meant to be an affirmative and which are meant to be a negative. I guess my study of Callum is moving along nicely. Not to facial expressions yet, but those are an advanced class.
Once we’re done eating, I pack up our trash and stand. “Thanks for eating with me.”
I expect him to leave now. We’ve eaten, and there’s probably a museum he wants to see somewhere in this city. It is London, a city known for its museums.
And I kind of need him to leave for what’s going to happen next.
He grunts in acknowledgement of my thanks, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he looks at his watch. “What are you going to do until we have to meet everyone for dinner?”
“I was thinking of hanging around here. Maybe reading some. Or catching up on email.”
He nods. “It’s a nice garden. I’ll stay, too.”
Hmm. Non, merci. I would like to do the next part without judgment. “Really? There are so many nice museums I’m sure you would rather go to than hang out here in nature.” I stop myself from physically pushing him out of the park. Because I don’t know if I’ll be successful.
He narrows his eyes at me, and I know I’m laying it on thick. But I want to take my pictures in peace. “What are you playing at? You’re being very suspicious.”
“What?” I scoff. “Am not.”
“What are you trying to do in this park, and will I need to call Rob for legal assistance?”
“Oh for—I’m going to take photos, all right? Probably to put on social media. Definitely some will be selfies. And your absolute disgust with the process will not help the endeavor at all.”
He looks appropriately taken aback at my outburst. But not as deterred as I had hoped. “I can help,” he says gruffly.
“Say what now?” Was my sandwich rotten? Am I having a salmonella-induced hallucination?
“I can take the pictures, if you want. And of you, so they aren’t selfies. In the technical sense of the word.”
“But you’re morally opposed to photos.”
Callum rolls his eyes at me. “I’m not a monster.
Sure, I don’t like photos when they interrupt my tours.
We have more important things to be doing.
But here, we’re on a break. We both already know a fair amount about this site’s history, and I’ve been to most of London’s museums. Some multiple times.
So if you want the photos, I can take them. ” He extends his hand out for my phone.
I’m still frozen by the offer, still half thinking I’m imagining it. “But you—”
“Woman, do you want the photos taken or not?” Callum snaps at me, tired of having his offer questioned.
“Okay.” I hand the camera over with no more delay. This might be a once in a lifetime experience, like a comet that only comes around every seventy-five years, or me unpacking my suitcase the day I come back from a trip. I shouldn’t waste it.
“All right, get in front of the green bits.” Callum tries to direct me to the spots he thinks would make a good photo. “Maybe get on the bench. Look casual. No, casual. Not like you’re taking an undignified public nap.”
I follow his instructions in a daze, smiling when told, moving when he directs me, and trying not to laugh at his face, which is so serious and concerned about getting the best shot.
“Do you want to look at some of these? Make sure you don’t hate them all.”
“I’m sure they’re going to be perfect.” But I take the phone and swipe. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with touristy photos. “Hey, these are really good!”
“Told you I could take a simple picture,” he grumbles. He leans over my shoulder to look at them. “What do you want them for anyway?”
“To send to family, post on social media so friends and internet strangers know what I’m up to. Rob sometimes asks for photos for the website. As keepsakes of the time I visited St. Dunstan’s and had a nice picnic lunch. The same reason anyone takes photos.”
“But you didn’t get any pictures during our picnic.”
“Hmm. You’re right. How will I remember everything about this day?” I sneak into position, and then snap another stealth selfie of us both when Callum is least expecting it.
“Bloody hell! Stop taking photos when I’m not ready for them.”
“What are you, in witness protection? I wouldn’t post it without your permission.” Then I take in his words. “Wait. Does that mean you’ll stand still for a photo if I do the countdown?”
Callum sighs, very put upon considering I’m asking for a photo with a coworker and not for his kidney. “All right. Get in position.” He leans his face close to mine.
I flip the camera around and lift the phone, looking at the two of us on the screen.
While he’s not smiling, he’s not exactly scowling either.
But the rest of his face is neutral, not exuding negativity, and I think this is the best I’m going to get.
I move the phone, and then slide closer to his side so we can get more of the greenery coming in through the window in the shot.
He reflexively extends an arm around me to steady us, which brings us even closer together.
While I appreciate the move gives me even more of the ruins in the picture, my body is happy because his grip is strong at my waist and his chest is warm at my side, the position making me feel connected to him in a way I haven’t with anyone in a while.
Not just physically, but like we’re really partners.
It can be lonely carting around groups of people. Entering their lives for a few weeks, while they’re on vacation and I’m working, and then never seeing them again. And never home long enough to make a solid friend group.
I didn’t think I would feel a connection with a man who sees the world the exact opposite as I do.
“Have you taken the picture yet?” Callum asks out of the corner of his mouth. It’s adorable that he’s taking care not to ruin my picture.
I tap the screen. “Just one more, horizontal now.” I shift the phone as I feel the first drops of rain fall on my face. “Oh no.” I shift in Callum’s arms to look at him.
“An English summer day.” He nods at the camera. “Take your photos and let’s find somewhere inside.”
I do as commanded and we gather our things.
“At least we got to eat the entire picnic. When I tried to organize a picnic for my first group in one of London’s parks, it started pouring, in summer, and we had to eat huddled under the umbrellas everyone just purchased.
” That souvenir shop got a lot of business that day.
And had to clean a lot of water off their floor.
“You didn’t stop the picnic?”
“I didn’t know where to take them that was inside and let in food. I offered to let everyone take as much lunch as they wanted and flee to find shelter, but some decided to stay and get the full London experience.”
“Were you serving wine?”
“So much wine. I’m sure that contributed to their decision-making process.
But I haven’t planned a picnic in the United Kingdom since then.
” We head to the closest Tube stop. “Want to pop into the Museum of the Home? It’s supposed to show rooms decorated in different period styles. Should be interesting.”
Callum grunts. An affirmative grunt this time.
Sweet, more time to learn to decipher this man’s body language.