“Oh, you’re right,” I say. “Awful! The motorcycle drives me crazy. Davey revs up before dawn every day. I think he’s some kind of chef.”
“Does he specialize in cooking sauerkraut?”
I keep her on speaker phone as the next prospective buyers come up the front stairs.”
“Yes. Sauerkraut. And kimchee. The place smells like old cooked cabbages and garlic for days and days.”
We keep it up for an hour. Dear Donna. She says she’s unpacking a huge kitchen and glad to chat as she fills the cupboards. I owe her.
“All gone now. We’re safe until Saturday morning.”
We discuss painting the place a vile color, but I can’t really do that without the landlord’s permission. She suggests I tack up some death metal posters, but I know I can’t live with them. I’ve only just arranged the furniture the exact way I like it, with pale pink throw rugs and pale green scatter cushions toning in with my favorite shabby chic pieces. Now that my whole haven is under threat, I need my peace and quiet more than ever.
I throw myself into creating more lamps, and if I don’t clean up as well after myself as usual, I forgive myself. The second bedroom is a mess of fabrics and half-finished projects by the following Saturday, and I don’t care.
On Sunday, children’s laughter summons me to the window. Down in the garden, there are two of them, jumping up and down, all energy. There’s a red ball. My heart jumps when I see Dirk with the children, holding the ball above their heads and to the side, teasing them as they reach and miss and laugh and squeal. They need more space to play. Too bad Professor No disapproves.
I pull on a warm jacket, grab a bunch of grapes and some bananas, my gardening gloves and clippers, and rush down all the stairs and out into the cold.
The kids squawk and Dirk holds a finger to his lips to quieten them. “Focus on the ball,” he says. “Don’t waste your breath.”
Caught up in their game, they barely notice me, or Dirk chooses to ignore me. The Doc’s still got it, a lynx-like way with the ball, as if it’s an extension of his will, one moment airborne, and the next, tucked up under his arm as if it grew there. Liam jumps to retrieve it and Dirk teases him and then relents. The boy’s fumbles are a sweet contrast to Dirk’s control. Dirk laughs and ruffles his grandson’s hair, then it’s Lexie’s turn.
I’ve tried to push Dirk out of my mind, but it’s impossible. Yes, I want my apartment – but I also want to be the red ball, Dirk’s focus, in play and vital, as close to him as possible in the centre of his beloved family.
Chapter 35
Dirk
“Agood big brothershares, Theo,” I tell my grandson as he hogs the ball for himself and holds it just above Lexie’s reach. He’s two years older than Lexie, faster and more nimble.
“It’s no fun at all if you don’t share it, Theo,” I say. “The trick is to play the game.”
Lexie stands, hands on hips, defiant but defeated, bottom lip trembling.
“Time for a tackle,” I tell her, and swoop in. I pick Theo up, turn him upside down and shake him, but he holds on to the ball as if his life depends on it.
