Five: A Maor Novel (Maor series) by Caroline Greyling Page B

we make our way toward
the hedges that separate Nan’s property from his.    
    ‘Are you feeling better today?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, flushing at the memory of fainting
in the hall – and the memory of his arms around me. I hate that his first
impression of me is one of weakness.
    ‘You were up late,’ Kael observes.  
    ‘So were you,’ I reply.
    He gives me a wry smile.
    ‘One of the side-effects of my job.’
    I want to ask him what exactly that means. Where does he
work, or is he referring to his position as my bodyguard? What does he mean by ‘side-effects’
and how does that translate into insomnia?
    We’ve reached a gap in the hedge and Kael steps back,
puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me through and I forget what I’m
about to say. The static flows between us until we’re on the other side of the
bushes and he drops his hand.
    We pause on the other side and look at each other. The
look is pregnant and awkward, like we both want to talk about this thing that
happens when we touch, but we’re too afraid to broach the subject. After a
moment, Kael glances away, at the house and says: ‘Well, this is it.’
    I turn my attention to the modest single storey home
that looks almost frugal beside Nan’s double storey. There is a distinct aura
emanating from the earthy, face brick façade and cottage-pane windows. The
porch is covered with hanging plants and I can smell rosemary, lavender, sage,
garlic and roast meat. I’m not sure if the herbal aromas are coming from the
home-made, hanging herb garden, or from the kitchen.
    ‘It’s lovely,’ I say, and mean it. Even from the outside,
I can tell this isn’t just a house, it’s a home .
    We head up the steps and Kael opens the door for me to
step through. Inside, is a living room, modestly furnished with an oversized,
brown sofa. Piles of well-thumbed books are strewn across a rectangle, wooden
coffee table. A small bookcase in the corner is filled with old and new recipe
books, and there is a magnificent cuckoo clock that dominates the wall opposite
the front door. A small basket lays on the floor, beside an old leather armchair,
overflowing with spools of embroidery thread in every color imaginable.
    The room is empty of people, but full of life. The smell
of roasting meat wafts, with the sound of laughter from somewhere at the back
of the house.
    ‘They’re in the kitchen,’ Kael says. I follow him through
a room with an enormous pool table into a large open-plan dining and kitchen
area.
    ‘Bluebell!’ Nan rises from a bar stool at the curved
kitchen counter. ‘Did you sleep well?’ I nod, kiss her cheek and step back to
take stock of the other occupants of the room.
    ‘Let me introduce you to the Gregors,’ Nan says, ‘This
is Sandra.’
    A grey-haired woman with pink, apple cheeks and
laugh-lines around her eyes beams at me and limps around the counter. She wipes
her hands on the blue and green checkered apron spanning her ample waist, throws
her arms around me and squeezes.
    ‘It’s great to have you home again, love!’
    Her voice has a touch of Scottish brogue and it rumbles
from deep in her stomach, gentle and joyful in one. I’m not used to hugging
strangers, so I squeeze her back awkwardly for a second, and then step back.
She’s looking at me like I’m a long-lost daughter and it makes me feel guilty
and warm at once. Should I remember her? Why don’t I?
    She smiles at me, grabs hold of my hand and squeezes.
She seems to understand me somehow. It’s
okay if you don’t remember , her eyes say, I remember you . I blink back the unexpected moisture in my eyes,
squeeze her hand and return my attention to Nan.       
    ‘You’ve already met Jake,’ Nan says. She takes a step toward
Jake and slips her hand into the crook of his arm. It’s such a casual movement,
but my eyes lock on the point where her pale fingers meet Jake’s sun-bronzed
skin. I look up at his face, then at hers, searching for