Page 6 of Fire Fight

The gentleadultreassurance is something that’s always been absent in my life. Although it’s been eight years since my last stay in a foster home, Mum still struggles to take care of herself and me. But my new quasi-stepfather appears to have an effortless handle on the skills she’s missing.

I practically dance my way into the kitchen.

“Shouldn’t we unpack first?” My mother plucks at the skin of her neck, a nervous habit she’s passed to me.

“Emily will sort all that,” he assures her.

With perfect timing, a stern-faced woman walks past the window carrying our worldly possessions, all two duffel bags full.

“Is she your maid?”

“Housekeeper.” He lowers his voice. “And never, ever suggest anything different or you’ll have a cold shoulder for a month. She’s still upset I moved last year and condemned her to life on the side of a hill. Apparently, it involves far too many stairs.”

I’m still giggling as he moves to the pantry and withdraws a tray laden with meats, cheeses, slices of crusty bread, and wholegrain crackers.

“Is that a charcuterie board?” I ask, pinching myself because we’ve now entered a level of fanciness I wasn’t sure existed. The nod immediately prompts another question. “Is it all for us?”

“Unless you’ve invited someone else.” He fetches a stack of plates with delicate scalloped edges and hands them to us. “We’re pretty casual about meals here, so just help yourself.”

Casual.

Arnold clearly needs a new dictionary.

I swap a delighted grin with my mother before we devour the feast.

When Arnold excuseshimself half an hour later, dragging his feet, I walk him out to the car while Mum stores what’s left from our lunch.

“Thank you so much for inviting us to stay. It’s incredibly generous when you haven’t known us long.”

“You’re welcome, and I have good instincts. One reason I’m successful.”

He pauses for a second, blue eyes twinkling as Mum comes out to say goodbye as well.

“And it’s closer to a year. After our first couple of dates, I thought she ghosted me.” His expression turns winsome as she joins us, and he presses a soft kiss to the side of her forehead. “You can’t believe how happy I was to reconnect.”

A year. Around the time of the incident at school. Mum had also ‘mislaid’ the message the school secretary left on her voicemail that day, leaving me to make my way home.

Either an oversight—it isn’t the first time she’s forgotten messages the instant she hears them—or an avoidance pattern. When she’s mired in the mood swings of her disorder, everything takes on a negative spin. Easier to delete a slew of messages than listen to one that might drop her into a pit for days.

We watch him reverse out the driveway, then Mum laughs, swinging me into a gigantic hug as my muscles fully relax for the first time indays.“I knew you’d love it. I tell you, this time it’s the real deal.”

She hurries us back inside, glowing as we enter my new bedroom.

Despite climbing the staircase to reach it, the windows are at ground level thanks to the steep slope of the land. The outlook is narrower than the flagrant display of the glass wall, but the view is just as stunning.

The centrepiece of the room is a princess bed I’m far too old for but instantly adore. I jump onto the mattress, lying back with my arms crossed over my chest—sleeping beauty waiting for the prince’s kiss to wake her. The canopy of pink ruffles makes my girly heart reverberate with joy.

“Look at this wardrobe,” my mother squeals, hurrying across the deep pile carpet to fling open the double doors, showing me a space larger than any bedroom I’ve lived in before.

And that’s just the room for myclothes.

My smile fades a little at the uniforms hanging from the railing, but soon returns as I toss my bag inside to unpack later, and cross to the other internal door.

The bathroom takes my breath away. The showerhead has so many nozzles, taps, and buttons I’ll need an instruction manual, but I’m happy to dedicate some quality alone time to solving the puzzle.

Next to it is a deep bathtub with jets like a fancy spa pool. A lineup of bottles promises bubbles of any scent, while the lush pile of white towels tempts me with thoughts of taking a dozen baths a day.

“Lock the door. I’m never leaving this room.”

---