Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137588 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 688(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 459(@300wpm)
He taught me how to prepare an open fire so that it lit quickly and lasted forever. Taught me winter shrubs in the garden. Taught me how good it feels to walk barefoot on frosty grass in the morning sun with his warm hand in mine.
He taught me to slow dance to cheesy old songs.
He taught me how to stretch the perfect canvas.
He taught me that the greatest companionship can be found in comfortable silence… or just the simplest of touches.
He taught me that the mundane little things in life can really be the most magical of all.
He taught me how to love completely, and how it feels to be loved completely.
And I loved him that much.
I loved him so much.
Oh God, I loved him with every single part of me.
It broke my heart in the most beautiful way to leave him on Christmas morning.
***
I’d promised my parents that I’d be home on Christmas Day. And then I’d promised them I’d be home in time to open my presents with Katie at stupid o’clock in the morning.
Mark woke me well before stupid o’clock. He woke me with kisses on my cheeks and a big bright smile, and an apple and an orange and a lump of coal.
I laughed.
“Tradition,” he said. “We’re creating new traditions every day.”
“I like the tradition of waking up with you on Christmas morning, Mr Roberts. This one is a keeper.”
“No objections here, Helen. It’s a great future tradition.”
I reached under the bed, and sought out my little surprise. It was nothing really, a small gesture, but his eyes sparkled as he took it from my hands.
“For me?”
I nodded. “Happy Christmas, Mark.”
He tore the wrapping with a smile, and then he didn’t say a word. My heart stuttered.
“I can do you another one… if you don’t like it…”
Suddenly the image of my hand in his looked warped and crappy, as though the watercolours had cheated me and bled into chaos overnight. It looked messy, and clunky, and amateur, and…
“I love it,” he said. “It’s absolutely perfect.” He wrapped his arms around me and breathed into my hair and I knew that he meant it. I could feel it in everything. He pressed his fingers to my cheeks. “Thank you, Helen.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything. For the magic in everything.”
He took my hand and pulled me out of bed, and wrapped me in a big towelling dressing gown. “Now for yours,” he said, and we were off, downstairs, through to his studio, where my heart thumped with excitement.
The room looked different. Canvases rearranged and shunted and put into order.
He gestured to the far corner, and there was a draped white sheet.
I pulled it off with a squeal that choked itself into oblivion, then stared at him with wide eyes.
“This is for me?! It’s really for me?”
“For you.”
I ran my hands over the smooth oak frame, the fine craftsmanship of the easel. It was heavy and strong, a sturdy H-frame with a quad base. It was stunning.
“For here?” I could barely believe my eyes.
He shrugged. “I was hoping so, but it’s yours, Helen, you can have it wherever you like. I thought you may want to take it to university, but this spot is yours as long as you want it.” He sighed. “I’d love you to keep it here, Helen. I love painting with you.”
My heart exploded into stars. “I’d love to keep it here.”
His smile was addictive. “I almost broke and gave it to you early, several times, in fact. I had to lock it up in the outhouse.”
“I had no idea.”
He reached behind him, fumbled amongst some cans of pastel spray until he presented me with a ceramic figurine. But it wasn’t one, it was two. Two people entwined as one. Their arms holding each other tight, legs one singular trunk before turning to roots and trailing away. It was detailed, and washed with a perfect shade of ochre. It was us.
“You made this?”
He nodded like it was nothing. “It’s only a token.”
But he was underplaying it massively. It was hours of skill and care, hours of preparation and sculpting.
“I love you more than I know how to say, Mark.”
“And I love you, Helen.” He wrapped me in his arms and lifted me, walking me back through to the dining room. “But so do your parents, and your little sister. And they’ll be waiting for you.”
“What will you do?” I asked.
He placed me at the bottom of the stairs and smoothed the hair from my forehead.
“I’m going to say goodbye to some old traditions,” he said. “It’s time I made space for the new ones.”
***
Mark
The crunch of frosty grass under my feet sounded so loud in the stillness. I rubbed the ice from Anna’s name, tracing the letters with my cold fingertips.
I placed the roses in the vase.