Robin nodded slowly. “So you kept doing it?”
Lucas considered his answer before speaking. “Sometimes, I paint them. It seems to upset some people.”
So he did feel rage, or at least anger, at the coven. Deep down and carefully channeled into acts like avoiding them unless they sought him out or daring them to ask about his fingernail polish.
“And,” Lucas went on, almost reluctantly, “some in my family think I should take care of myself more.”
“Take care of yourself?” Robin didn’t mean to parrot him, but Lucas seemed better at caring for himself than Robin did.
“Pamper myself,” Lucas amended. “Treat myself. Whatever you want to call it.”
“So… nail polish.” He might have chosen better fitted clothes and more frequent haircuts, but Robin supposed the town and the coven were not ready for a more overtly sexy Lucas anyway. He wasn’t sure he was. “Do you do other colors?” he asked at last. “I don’t think there are any bottles of polish here that aren’t dried up by now…. I really ought to clean out their bedrooms.” He had never voiced the thought, though he’d known he should do it and give away anything someone else might find useful. He should have done it years ago, for some of the rooms. He cleared his throat and refocused on Lucas. “Anyway, the ladies of the house tended to like pinks and reds and that brownish taupe color that was big in pantyhose in the 1980s.” There were probably also pantyhose upstairs that needed to be thrown out or donated. Maybe… a room at a time. Robin could clean out a room every few months. Or would all at once be easier?
“That color looks good on no one,” he finished once he realized he had gone quiet. “I have a kit in the upstairs bathroom you can use, but I just smooth mine down so they don’t catch on anything. If you want to do your nails, Lucas, I meant the remover to help you.”
Lucas ducked his head in acknowledgment, or maybe embarrassment at having chipped nails in the first place. “It bothers me when the color starts to flake off.”
That was clearly true. But. “And you thought the color itself bothered me. It doesn’t, just so you know. And you shouldn’tremove it for me. Or anyone else. But honestly, who am I to deserve that sort of concern? And anyway,” he gestured eloquently at Lucas, “I would only encourage more color. You know this.” He gestured at himself, still in his flannels and jeans from the trip into town, then at the baskets of bright yarn all over the room, and the couch and its multitude of multicolored blankets. “We like color here.”
“I wasn’t denying myself, Blessing,” Lucas said quietly. “I would’ve talked about it with you. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I…” Robin closed his silly mouth, inhaled through his nose, then tried again. “Are you joining me for dinner? I meant to cook for you, you know.”
Lucas crooked a sly little smile. “I know. And I will in a moment.”
He left the room and Robin set the tray on the floor so he could lean over and toss all the blankets onto the armchair. When Lucas returned, Robin had the tray in his lap again and Lucas had room on the couch.
“That chair is good for lying down. Not so much for eating,” Robin explained. They could have eaten in the dining room, but he didn’t suggest it.
Lucas didn’t have a tray. He must have found only the one and decided Robin needed it more. Robin tried not to sigh.
“This looks incredible,” he told Lucas the moment Lucas sat down with his plate, and smiled to himself as when Lucas turned to look at him. Robin took a bite as if he didn’t see the amazed stare. “Show-off,” Robin added once he’d swallowed.
“It was in the recipe tin,” Lucas offered softly, watching him eat. “And I assumed you put sweet potatoes and figs on your list for a reason.”
Robin lifted a finger in mild objection. “Yes, but I’m still cooking tomorrow. I want to…” He trailed off as a large black bird waddled into the room, then swooped up to the top of the lamp by the chair. It ruffled and then unruffled its feathers. The second bird came in moments later, then gave Robin a small heart attack by taking off just to land on the back of the couch behind him.
Robin thought it was the bigger one, the one who had called him a baby. Nevertheless, he held up a piece of fig for it, and it investigated the fruit with interest before croaking and turning away.
“Full of mice?” Robin asked it, only a bit snippy, and set the piece of fig aside.
“Was something wrong with the chair?” Lucas wondered, after finally starting to eat. “Should I not sit there?”
“Well, not to eat. It reclines too much. Too many years of use.” Robin studied it. “It needs to be restuffed and reupholstered. The ottoman needs to be repaired as well.” It wasn’t steady. The wooden frame had probably cracked. “I’ll add it tomylist,” Robin said before Lucas could volunteer himself.
Lucas practically grumbled. “You could show me what needs doing,” he almost, not exactly, complained, “if it’s not a fabric thing.”
“A fabric thing.” Robin snickered. “It’s all right. You don’t need to know everything, oh learned one.”
Lucas appeared pleased to be the subject of teasing, although he earnestly pushed for knowledge anyway. “I’d like to know.And I have the space for small projects. I have my own workshop. It’s basically a shed. But I built it how I wanted it, and no one else is allowed in there. I work better that way.”
“Really?” Robin knew that Lucas must have trained in the same skills as the rest of the family in addition to everything else he’d picked up. He just hadn’t wanted to consider Lucas working with anything that put him slightly more at risk than the others. “With the… saws and things?”
“Saws and things.” It was Lucas’s turn to be amused. “Yes. If everything is where I put it, then it’s safe. If no one surprises me from the left, it’s as safe as any other workshop. I’m careful, but other people, even those who mean well, move things, or come in and don’t realize I haven’t heard them and forget I can’t see them on one side. It’s mine, although not my workspace since I don’t have an art the way that you and some others do. But I can fix and repair and restore most things. I’d be happy to take a look at the ottoman.”
“Ah.” Robin pictured Lucas in what was no doubt a uniquely yet perfectly organized shed, lovingly restoring antique drawer knobs or lamps from the 1920s. “Then the ottoman might be more your area. Reupholstering—for our purposes, not for resale—mostly involves swatches of fabric and a staple gun. Unless we’re talking about the embroidered chairs from the dining room. Those are family work, and heirlooms, and that ismyarea.”
Lucas bowed his head. “Obviously.”
