“It was going to be our Ewok forest fromReturn of the Jedi,” he said, as they cracked the cans open and drank. He could almost feel the sugar and caffeine refueling his bloodstream. “We had big plans to build one each and connect rope bridges between them, but then Eddie got more interested in cars and girls. I continued to fix it up, over the years. It was a good place to hide away and draw.”
“You still use it?”
“I’ll occasionally come and sit up here when the house feels too big. Haven’t been up much lately.”
“Your very own Rapunzel’s tower. With a ladder. And no witch.”
“Something like that.” Tom had spent a lot of time up there after the crash—better than hanging around the house listening to his parents turn on each other—and then after his mother and Eddie left for London, when the house seemed so empty. But after his grandfather disappeared, the wood and the moor lost their escapist appeal. He couldn’t go anywhere without looking twice at every bog and ravine, every fresh landslip revealed after a storm. Tree roots assumed the forms of twisted, shrunken human bodies. Bleached dead branches could be bones dredged up by wild animals. Everywhere, he saw places the searchers might not have thought to check.
Amelia gasped. He turned to her, realizing he’d been staring off into space. She was clutching a cushion. “What is it? Did you hear something?” He couldn’t catch anything beyond the wind moaning through the trees and the trickle of the stream.
“This is hand-embroidered, possibly Elizabethan, you philistine!” she hissed, playfully bashing him over the head with the cushion. “In your play hut!”
It took a lot of effort for Tom to keep from laughing out loud.
“Your great-great-great-something-something grandmother probably made it for her wedding trousseau. Stitched it out of pure love and hope. You don’t deserve any of this stuff!” Her eyes widened. “Sorry, that was… I didn’t mean…”
“No, you’re quite right. I don’t appreciate it or deserve it. The cushion is all yours, should you want it.”
“It should be in a museum.”
“It should be with someone who appreciates it. Though I suppose you have loads of old fabrics and things at home.”
She looked at it, wistfully. “None at all.”
“Oh, but then, you’re between homes. I forgot. Is that because of the robbery?”
She nodded.
“That was a year ago, yeah? You’ve been couch-surfing ever since?”
“I thought moving out would mean moving on, but it hasn’t worked out like that. I’m having trouble finding another home that feels right. And I got rid of pretty much all my stuff.”
“Everything?”
“Thing is,” she said, tracing the embroidery on the cushion with a finger, “my apartment was my sanctuary. I mean, I know everyone’s house is a sanctuary—that’s the whole point of them—but that was the entire theme I set up with mine.”
“What was it like, your apartment?”
She frowned. “You want to know about my interior design scheme?”
“I actually do.” Though, in truth, it was at least fifty percent about keeping her mind off the prospect of them being ambushed. He slid closer so she would barely even have to whisper. He could just watch her lips while she more-or-less mouthed the words.
“Duck-egg walls with white trim,” she began, leaning forward, so close he had to flick his gaze between her eyes and her mouth. “Blues and greens and whites because they made me feel at peace and grounded. Photos of beaches and forests. Candles and low lights and happiness. Textures you could snuggle into—cashmere throws, bouclé cushions, linen drapes, a deep-pile rug. I would walk in the door and my whole body would relax. I could leave the world outside and breathe.” Fine lines appeared in her forehead. “I used to love being at home by myself, in my little cocoon, but now… Mom used to tease me that I had set up my life in a controlled environment, as if I was some precious silk.”
“You lost that control,” he said gently. “And your whole career is based around the comforts of home—protecting them, preserving them.”
She stared at him, pursing her lips. “That’s so true. I put everything on eBay—the throws, the rugs, the pictures, even my clothes. I remember staring at a cushion, after the robbery.” She hugged the old cushion to her chest. “I made it years ago from vintage Florence Broadhurst curtain fabric I picked up at a yard sale, and I loved it. But I was looking at it, and I got this visceral reaction. It started at cold terror and shot through to rage, hot like you wouldn’t believe.” She touched her cheek as if she could still feel the heat. “And I grabbed my scissors and tore it apart. I cut myself and had to get stitches.” She held out a palm, on which he could just make out a fine white line. “And now, for the rest of my life, I’ll think of the robbery every damn time I look at my hand. I got rid of all the temporary reminders and, in the process, I gave myself a permanent one. I can’t even buy myself a cushion because I know that when something bad happens, I’m going to end up hating it.”
“So it’s the same as with dating?”
She tilted her head. “Huh?”
“You can’t fall in love because you’re looking ahead to when you fall out of love. You can’t buy a cushion because you fear something bad will happen that will make you hate it. You can’t find a new home because you’re worried something will destroy its sanctity.”
“Well, shit,” she said, with a soundless laugh. “And here’s me thinking I just hadn’t found a place with the right ambience.”
“You don’t trust the future.”
