36
FENELLA
Coffee mug in hand, Fenella leaned against the kitchen counter of their new house, trying not to laugh as she surveyed the corner of the living room that Din had dedicated as his reading nook.
The brass octopus lamp held pride of place beside his leather recliner, its multiple arms reaching out in all directions like a mythical sea creature suffering an emotional breakdown.
But it was the newest addition that he'd just finished hanging on the wall that really completed the aesthetic disaster.
"Scottish Terriers playing poker." She shook her head. "Where did you even find this newest monstrosity?"
"The internet, where else?" He took a step back to observe his work, and a look of smug satisfaction spread over his face. "It's whimsical, and it makes me smile every time I look at it." He turned to look at her, and his grin widened. "Just like every time I look at you."
She snorted, spluttering coffee, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Did you just compare me to this abomination?"
"It is not an abomination. It's art."
"It's what happens when art has too much whiskey and makes poor life choices."
He walked up to her and kissed her on the lips. "You love it. Admit it."
"I hate it." She was barely managing to keep a straight face.
"I saw you smiling at it."
"I was grimacing." When he made a sad puppy face, she finally conceded. "Fine, it's charming in its ridiculousness, and the most important thing is that it makes you happy."
The truth was that she felt a little guilty about him giving up his university position to live with her in the village because she was not too keen on going back to Scotland with him. He'd assured her that he wasn't doing it because of her and that it was only a sabbatical, and if she got tired of the village and wanted a change of atmosphere, they could move to Edinburgh, and he could resume his teaching. Still, he was leaving the decision up to her.
It was a sensible approach, and given her history, she probably would get tired of living in this tiny community, but right now she liked it too much to ever want to leave. After half a century of being on her own, she had safety, family, friends, and a job she loved. Why would she want to give it up?
She'd had enough adventures to last her at least a few centuries.
Din reached for her hand and led her to his recliner. "Come sit with me. See for yourself how cozy it is in my reading nook."
"I know it is." She settled against him, careful not to spill her coffee.
The electric recliner was ridiculously comfortable, she had to admit. Din had spent an absurd amount of time testing chairs before selecting this one, which was big enough for the two of them to cuddle on together.
She loved this corner of their home precisely because it was so perfectly Din—intellectual pretensions mixed with absolutely terrible taste, all wrapped up in endearing optimism and enthusiasm.
Their house was a two-bedroom Italian villa in what was considered the 'old' section of the village, though 'old' was relative when the entire village was new. It had come fully furnished, but they'd managed to make it theirs with some minor redecorating in the week since they'd moved in.
Frankly, it had looked better before the application of Din's eclectic style, but it now felt more like home.
"What are you reading?" she asked, when he reached for the book he'd left open on the side table.
"Robert Burns," he said, then added with an exaggerated Scottish accent, "Would ye like me to read ye some proper Scottish verse, lassie?"
"I don't know who he is, but as long as it is not in Gaelic, I'm willing to listen." She settled more comfortably against his chest.
He cleared his throat dramatically. "Here's a classic— ‘A Red, Red Rose.'"
He began to read. "'O my Love is like a red, red rose,'" he began properly enough, then continued, "'That's newly sprung in June, O my Love is like a melody, That's sung by a Highland coo.'"
Fenella was no expert on poetry, but that didn't sound right. "Highland coo?" She twisted to look at him. "Did Robert Burns write love poems about Highland cows?"
"Oh, aye," he said, returning to the exaggerated accent. "Burns loved a good Highland coo. Very poetic, coos."
