“Yes.” I laugh breathily, throwing up my free hand in a flighty wave. “But I’m paying rent.”
“Fine,” he says, sounding composed and irritating me no end.
Having his answer, he wastes no time in leading me to the front door, where we are promptly invited in by the real estate agent Lauren Jefferies and the current owners, the conservative Lambert family. I’m relieved that no one recognizes us.
As soon as we’ve had a quick tour of the house, Aaron insists on signing the paperwork. Lauren seems more than delighted when he passes the bank cheque into her hands. I’m even asked to sign several documents. Something about needing another witness to the sale or something. I never get a chance to read it properly, I just sign above my already printed name: Evangeline Jayne Lockhart. After my signatures, the transaction happens quickly. The real estate lady scans and signs the documents, organizing them into folders.
Leaning against the kitchen pantry, Aaron and I watch the Lambert’s two-year-old son run laps around the house. As they explain that their eldest two boys are in school today, Aaron’s hand tenses in mine. His gaze becomes unfocused as they point to a school photo of the young teens on the fridge. I want to rush him from the room and forget that we ever came here. But when they ask Aaron and me if we have kids of our own, I freeze. Aaron is still in some kind of fog and hasn’t registered the last fragments of conversation, so I have no choice but to answer, “Ah, no. We—”
“We haven’t got that far yet,” Aaron cuts in, hugging me to him.
He seems completely relaxed by the whole conversation, then manages to sneak a smile my way, confounding me further. He’s enjoying this lie far too much, but I will go along with his lie. As crazy as it is, he needs this.
Not for the first time since we arrived, I stare out through the kitchen windows, absorbing the in-ground swimming pool and the enchanted gardens beyond, a large oak shading it all. To the right of the pool, the master bedroom extends with a line of white French doors and windows and white curtains fluttering inside—this is the room Aaron has already deemed as mine when we’d taken a quick tour. It is undoubtedly the most beautiful room in the house, but supposedly too feminine and airy for his tastes. This had to be a tactical move on his behalf. He had to know I’d fall in love with the room and, honestly, if I could move in here today I would.
“I’m sure you’ll both be very happy here,” Mrs. Lambert says. “I know it’s only a house, but it’s nice to know we’re leaving it in the hands of a young couple who will make this place a home.”
I squeeze Aaron’s waist and we both choose that moment to exchange looks, mine shy and Aaron’s full of certainty. Kill me now, I actually giggle as Aaron kisses me lightly on the lips—a show for the good people needing reassurance for their beloved home.
Smiling, Mrs. Lambert gives a tiny clap as she leads us from the rear of the house and under an archway, steering us into the lounge room. She is the epitome of the perfect hostess, with biscuits and slices already laid upon the coffee table. Mr. Lambert keeps to the background, all too happy for his wife to entertain. Lauren has hardly said a word now that the transaction is complete—Mrs. Lambert is closing the deal perfectly well on her own.
I release Aaron’s hand and move to the tall bay window that looks over the front garden. The window is delicate in every detail, with an overhang of scalloped curtains in heavy cream satin and tasseled drapes on either side, and cloth as fine as gossamer. Sunlight streams over the dark polished floorboards and a white grand piano, and I imagine many hours passing me by as I sit at that piano and play.
Aaron walks past the piano and twinkles several keys, bending a fraction as he listens to its tuning. He frowns. It’s way out of tune. Much like my neglected piano back home. He indicates that I should test out the keys for myself, but I shake my head. He thinks he can get me to play piano that easily! Not a chance.
We sit down in the brocade armchairs, sip our tea, and listen to the Lambert’s love story with this house. We discover that they’ve been the sole owners since Aaron’s family up and left for London. I can tell the news is exactly what Aaron wants to hear. There’s a light in his eyes as he explains that he lived here as a teenager. They are instantly overjoyed, Mrs. Lambert especially. He recalls how he and his brother had the last two rooms at the end of the hallway. His voice has a rasp to it now, and I hear it more as he says, “He died last week.”
Everyone stares at him, wide-eyed, all but the two-year-old ploughing into the choc-chip cookies on the table.
Mrs. Lambert gulps hard on her tea. “I’m very sorry.” She looks ready to cry, as does Lauren. Great, I have tears in my eyes. My hand instantly lifts to Aaron’s back and he stills. I leave it there, but don’t even think about rubbing it comfortingly as he’d done when I’d been discussing Jeremy.
“I see why buying this house means so much to you,” says Mr. Lambert.
I’m grateful that no one asked how Damien died, because I’m sure from their expressions they were tempted to ask. It’s a natural follow-up question, one to show true concern. Thankfully, Mr. Lambert knew better in this case.
“That explains why you were willing to pay twice the market price to take it off auction,” says Lauren, finally contributing to the conversation now that money’s involved.
Twice the market price! That’s robbery! The poor guy has lost his brother. They know this, and yet they’re making him pay twice the price so he can have his old home back. It’s unjust. Cruel.
“What was the market price, originally, if you don’t mind me asking?” I say.
“Eve.” Aaron squeezes my hand, as if that’s enough to stop me. “It’s fine.”
“No, I’d like to know. Twice of whatever the asking price is, I’m imagining that’s quite a bit. Surely they could be a bit more considerate given you were the previous owner and all…”
He buries his head in his hands, and I’m not sure if he’s become exasperated by me or by talk of his brother. And I’m not helping. I should stop talking now. I sip my tea and admire the dainty floral tea cup, enjoying the fact that it has no sentimental value to me. I picture the Mozart mug and decide that Aaron and I really need to go on a shopping spree for the new house. The first thing we’re going to buy is a new set of porcelain mugs.
Mr. and Mrs. Lambert exchange a guilty look.
Lauren looks at her hands and excuses herself to the bathroom.
I sip my tea.
Aaron stands and places his cup on the table, then moves it quickly as the little boy, Ryan, grabs for it. He crouches down. “You’re a fast one, aren’t you?” He smiles, placing his large hand on the table and letting Ryan slap the back of it. Aaron lightly places his other hand on top and there begins a game of whose hand is faster as the tower of hands climbs higher. The little boy wins, or more to the point Aaron lets him.
I can’t help but smile, but it’s not with happiness. I like watching Aaron like this, gentle, childlike. He likes children, which I also like. But even this child’s happiness, a stranger, is more important than his own. I think he’s the most selfless person I’ve ever met, and I realize that’s why I’m so angry about this house. If they knew Aaron they would never have doubled the price. No wonder they’ve been so hospitable with their cakes and cookies and cups of tea. It’s nothing but a token when they’re probably gaining millions in this one transaction. And how Aaron can afford a multi-million-dollar house, I have no idea.
Aaron stands once more, and this time he looks to Mr. Lambert. “I have two more propositions to make.”
“You do?” Mr. Lambert adjusts his glasses and sits down, almost missing the chair.
“Actually, one moment,” he says, holding up his hand. Aaron turns and bends down to me, his eyes serious as they search mine. “Do you like it here—the house?”
“The house, yes,” I whisper, nodding. The people, I’m not decided on. Fortunately, they don’t come with the end package.
He smiles a fraction. “This
room and the furniture?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t like this?” I whisper, wondering if he wants the name of their decorator.
He nods, seemingly satisfied with my answers, then turns to Mr. Lambert. “Would you be willing to part with the furniture in this room for a small price?”
Mr. Lambert rubs his greying hair and stammers, “We… We weren’t intending to. But…” He looks to his wife, who shrugs, still looking worried since Aaron’s revelation.
“Name your price.”
Name your price! I’m ready to pull Aaron out of the room and ask him what on Earth he’s thinking. They’ve already charged him double. They should throw this stuff in for free!
“The Steinway is worth ninety thousand alone,” Mr. Lambert says, nodding to the beast of a piano.
“Fine,” Aaron says. “Two-hundred K for the lot. The piano, the paintings, dinnerware, cabinets, dining table, and drapery. Everything in this room as it is now. That’s my final offer.”
Mr. Lambert’s mouth drops open, then he goes to shake Aaron’s hand. “You have—”
“Hm-hm.” Mrs. Lambert pulls her husband by the arm. “A word, Douglas.” She leads him through the rear archway and into the kitchen. The little boy runs after his parents.
As we hear them arguing, Aaron and I share an awkward smile.
“Looks like I’ve caused a bit of a stir,” he says. Somehow, he seems to be enjoying that fact, and I can kind of understand why. I’m still angry with the couple who have taken all of his money. They deserve a little unrest. “You don’t seem to mind?”
I shrug innocently.
He flops back into the white leather sofa and relaxes properly for the first time all day. He pulls me back by the waist, and as I rest my head back against the cushy leather he kisses the side of my temple. I glance over at him, eyes narrowed, wondering what he’s up to, how he can kiss me so easily given last night. We still haven’t had ‘The Talk’. Not that I really care. If I could, I’d like to hold on to him as long as possible.
“So, can you see us here?” he asks.
“Hm…?” I glance around at the lavish furnishings and try to fit myself into them. I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah, it’s not so bad. It’s not my house, but you know… It‘ll do.”
He gives a laugh-grunt. “I was thinking of converting the study into a studio.”
“That would be very cool.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“And my guitar will go here,” I say, patting the front left side of the sofa.
“You’re a creature of habit, aren’t you?”
“C’mon. You’re not telling me that you aren’t going to place your guitar in the same spot over on your side?”
He shrugs and smiles. “You know me too well.”
“Weirdly, I feel that I do.” I look across at him and sense that he agrees with me. We are in tune with each other in so many ways that it’s kind of spooky. “Although, I could also say that I don’t know you nearly enough.”
“To be expected, considering that we didn’t know each other a week ago. Although, it does feel like longer.”
“In a good way?”
“Yes.”
I laugh once, wishing we had known each other longer.
Mr. and Mrs. Lambert return from the kitchen and she gives her husband a nasty glare. He clears his throat. “After further discussion, we have decided to give you the entire room’s furnishings as part of the settlement—no extra charge. Lauren is making up the paperwork as we speak.”
“Thank you,” Aaron says, shaking Mr. Lambert’s hand.
“Now, what was that other thing you wanted?” Mr. Lambert enquires.
Aaron’s demeanor changes instantly. He is tense, his face unreadable. He takes a moment to speak. “When I was living here my brother and I hid a time capsule in the wall between our bedrooms. It’s one of the main reasons I bought this place. Just to bang a hole in the wall.” He laughs oddly. “I was hoping to retrieve it today—with your permission, of course.”
Hearing the struggle in Aaron’s voice, I now understand why Aaron wanted me here, not only for a house inspection, but for this, too. This moment is possibly too big to do alone.
“I have no problem with it,” says Mrs. Lambert. “Do you?” she asks her husband.
He looks torn at first, but then we are being lead through the lounge room and under another archway that leads to the front entrance. We diverge down a hallway along the side of the house, passing a large study before we stop at the first of two bedrooms.
Aaron turns to the Lamberts. “Do you mind if I do this alone?”
“Sure,” they say, leaving quietly.
Feeling out of place, as if I’m trespassing, I begin to follow them back down the hallway when he arms grabs my hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Me?” I say. “I assumed ‘alone’ meant you without me.”
“Stay?”
I squeeze his hand. “I’m here.”
With a solemn nod, he leads me into the bedroom that has blue curtains with red stars splattered over them. “Hammer?” He holds out his hand while running his other hand over the wall, as if searching for the perfect spot to smash. I dig out the hammer from my handbag and pass it over. He gives a strained smile, turns, stares at the wall, then steps back and hurls the hammer, cracking the wall into a web of plaster and white powder.
I flinch at the explosion of sound. He doesn’t notice, he just stares at the first inkling of a hole and slams the hammer again, widening the gap. I flinch again; a little less this time. He slams the hammer two more times, his whole-body heaving and throwing itself behind the force of the hammer, while I stand there silently crying, not out of fear, but at watching someone break down.
Plaster is everywhere, over the boy’s desk and lamp and schoolwork, but Aaron sees none of it. Breath heaving, he rubs his eyes on the back of his sleeve before putting his hand down the hole. He gives a soft hiss, reaches deeper into the wall cavity and retrieves a wide cylinder of grey plastic. He sits on the bed, staring at it through a mess of hair. I’m not sure whether to sit beside him or give him space, but I walk slowly toward the bed where he instinctively knows how far to grab my hand and pull me beside him, even though his eyes never stray from the time capsule.
He rotates the cylinder in his hands. “We’d been creating time capsules at school. Damien and I had thought it was stupid at first. That was until my dad suggested we do one of our own.”
I nod, but say nothing, scared to break this moment for him. He gives the capsule a hard twist and it separates in two. A roll of paper juts out and he laughs sadly. Tugging the paper free, he places the capsule between his legs and unravels the discolored paper, reads it quickly, folds it up, and places it on the desk. He tips the capsule. Four things spill out into his palm: a DVD in a clear cover; two wrist bands with metal and quartz threaded through the black leather strings; and a photograph.
Aaron lays the slightly blurred photograph on top of the pile and clutches it with both hands. I peer over and see a younger version of Aaron, hair swept messily across his forehead and mischief in his eyes. Fifteen-year-old me would have followed that grin of his around the schoolyard any day of the week. His arm is slung around his brother’s neck, making the younger Randall sink lower into the photograph, but Damien is smiling goofily at the camera, his sandy hair ruffled, his face full of laughter. The charms hanging from the trees in the front yard sparkle, taking up the edges of the background. My heart aches when I see the same leather wristbands from the capsule glistening on the boys’ wrists.
Aaron sniffs. His shoulders rise and fall sharply.
Tentatively, I lay my hand on his shoulder.
He stills and the capsule drops to the ground with an empty thud. Holding the mementos in one hand, he clutches his head and openly sobs.
My hand goes to my mouth and I can’t stop my tears as I rise from the bed and stand before him, running my hands through his hair in endless
circles.
His arms fold around my legs as he buries his head against my stomach, and my heart hurts almost as much as when I’d lost my parents. Softly, I begin to hum our demo song and sway him back and forth until he’s moving in time. He pulls back and swings me onto his lap. My arms wrap around his neck as I look up at him through his curtain of hair. His pupils are dilated, his irises the vividest blue and brown.
Laying my hand over his cheek, my heart twists as he closes his eyes and I see the tears upon his lashes. It is the most gut-wrenching face I’ve ever seen. His forehead bends to mine, and we sit there for what could be minutes or hours, until Aaron is ready to walk out the door.
Channel 3
“Alright, Aaron, Evangeline, let’s take a break,” says Jack, lowering his camera. The photographer reviews our shots, then frowns. “We’ll try again in few minutes.”
“Okay.” Even I know our photoshoot was lackluster.
Aaron looks surlier than usual as he shifts me from our last pose—me standing between his legs while he’d sat on a wooden crate. He walks off the set to where a small privacy screen is set up with bottles of water and two stacks of crates.
Off to the left, Rayne Wright is watching from the shadows as one of the executive producer’s talks him through his impending shoot. He gives me a quick wave. I wave back, then leave the blue backdrop and bright lights, grateful when Aaron passes me his water.
“How are you going with this?” I ask quietly. “Because, honestly, I’m struggling.”
Aaron grunts. “Much the same.”
This is the most I’ve heard from him since we left his new house yesterday. As soon as we’d arrived home, he’d sat on the sofa twisting the time capsule in his hands. He’d never spoken a word, not even when I’d told him that the producers from Original Star wanted us to come into the studio tomorrow. I’d given him his space, retreating to my room to practice our demo song for Sunday night’s performance. Aaron never touched his guitar. Later in the evening he was still there, the time capsule wedged between himself and the sofa. I was bordering on tears the whole day. By nine o’clock, I was tired of keeping my distance, so I sat down on my side of the sofa and stared at the TV, hoping he’d talk. When I woke this morning, I was under a blanket, wrapped in his arms.
Ardent Strangers: An Ardent Strangers novel (Ardent Strangers series Book 1) Page 11