‘Get your guitar, maybe the acoustic,’ she said and she sat down on one of the chairs while he handed her the instrument.
She played it and then tuned it slightly. Then she clamped the capo onto the neck of the guitar and started to play ‘Blackbird’ by The Beatles.
The sound changed and she saw Myles’s face light up. ‘That’s cool.’
‘It’s very cool, just like your toilet,’ she said and she saw him laugh a little.
‘You can play in different chords or use the same chords you know in a higher pitch without transposing them, which is hard.’ She played a few slides on the guitar.
‘Whoa, that’s seriously impressive,’ he said.
‘It’s a neat tool, and you can use it on the electric. Go and see what else is in there.’
Myles opened the bag.
‘A series of picks in different sizes and types. Some people have their favourite picks but I was never fussy. But it’s always good to have one on hand.’
And he pulled out a guitar strap.
‘That’s a Fender broken-in strap. It’s the most comfortable strap you can own, and it looks good.’
Myles touched the strap, feeling the leather and turning it over in his hands.
‘That’s really nice of you,’ he said quietly.
‘Anything for a fellow guitar head,’ she said. Myles was like an abused dog she had once brought home for her mum to care for. The animal was so desperate for love but so afraid that it took weeks for them to come out from under the china cabinet; but every day Donna or Eve sat on the floor and talked to the animal, read books quietly, or chatted to each other until one day, the dog came out and toddled over and sat in Eve’s lap. Patience and slow movements, she reminded herself. Don’t overwhelm him. She got up from the chair and placed the guitar in its stand.
‘Okay, well I’ll leave you to it,’ she said and she walked to the door.
She turned around at the last moment before she left.
‘Flora, Edward and I are decorating the tree later, if you feel like coming down. You could bring your guitar if you like and we can play some stuff? No stress if you’re not up to it. We’ll be downstairs.’
She closed the door behind her and let out a deep breath. She felt like she had been treading on eggshells the whole time she was in the room, but it went better than she thought it would. At least he didn’t scream at her to leave.
Asking him to join them downstairs was a big call and she knew he probably wouldn’t come, but she wanted him to know he was welcome, that she wanted nothing more than his company.
Being a teenager was hard enough without the extra stuff he had to deal with, she thought, and she went into the snug where Flora was administering to her dolls and sat down to edit Edward’s work.
Why on earth Amber Priest left this life she couldn’t understand, but who was she to question anything anymore?
She had a stupid, useless crush on a writer who was too old for her, who wasn’t interested in her and whose life was in turmoil.
She sure could pick them.
17
The sitting room was lovely in the evenings. The rich velvet curtains were closed and the fire was warm in the grate, sharing its warm light with the room. The lamps were on and the cushions were plumped on the chairs and sofa.
Edward had turned on some quiet jazz-inspired Christmas music and the scent of pine from the freshly cut tree was making him feel something unusual. He sat with his feelings for a while, trying to understand what it was that was welling up inside him and then it came.
Hope. He was feeling hopeful for the first time in a long while.
Myles was still with them. Flora was happier. He was writing. They had a plan for Christmas Day and he was sleeping better since Eve had come to Cranberry Cross. There was something so capable and peaceful about her, as though she was ready to manage anything at any time.
He watched her as she focused herself on the Christmas lights in her hands. She was patiently untangling them and slowly winding up the part that was tangle-free. One over the other and back again. Small increments of the lights slowly coming undone.
‘You have the patience of a saint,’ he said.
