Page 33 of The Aura Answer
And he needed to contribute to Evie’s generous family. Trading was all he knew—unless her Solutions Agency needed a marketing campaign. He could organize one, but he didn’t think they could afford the ad space.
The real danger of staying in a rent-free room was coming to enjoy family life a little too much. If he returned to the UK... Maybe he should move back to York, start a little shop there, rebuild his life...
He was out of his blooming mind. Too much Christmas cheer, obviously.
He parked Evie’s car in its usual space beside the house, unlocked the carriage doors, and brought out the old heavy canvas he’d found buried in a corner of junk. He’d added some weights and magnets with a glue gun so he could cover the Subaru with it. The makeshift cover wouldn’t last, but it might keep the Subaru’s windows frost free through the wintermonths. The winter here was certainly more pleasant than in York. Or London.
Wearing sweaters against the morning chill, the children raced around the backyard playing a game. He could remember he and his siblings running down alleys, daring each other to steal apples from vendors, but they’d never really played games. He couldn’t recall any, anyway.
The kids came running as he covered the car.
“Are you making a tent?” Gracie’s girl inquired politely.
Alex and Nan, Dante’s pair, peered under the edges as if he were concealing a magic trick.
“Just putting a blanket on the car to keep it warm. Would you like a tent?” In the garage junk piles, he’d seen what might have been one once.
All three heads bobbed eagerly. Oh well, it wasn’t as if his time was heavily scheduled.
Gracie came over to the gate to see what they were up to. She looked rosy-cheeked and more approachable somehow. Maybe it was that sweater she filled out better than any skinny model. The surge of lust was purely natural after months of abstinence, he told himself.
“Did you buy all the sketches?” she asked.
“I did. They’re in my briefcase. Want to flip through and tell me which I should frame first while I go tent hunting?” He led the procession into the carriage house.
“We have tents?” She glanced around the dim interior while he opened the briefcase.
“Maybe. I didn’t look closely.” He pointed at a pile of yard games and lawn ornaments in a corner. “You need shelves or storage boxes to organize this mess.”
“Or throw it all out since no one uses it anymore.”
“You have children in the house these days,” he reminded her.
After casting the toys a dubious glance, she spread the sketches across his workbench while Nick dug into the junk pile for the vinyl dome tent he’d seen.
“Bertie drew his family home,” she exclaimed.
Not being from around here, Nick hadn’t recognized any of the places or people. He’d just liked the simplicity with which they’d been drawn. “Is that significant?”
“The Walkers rent the old Satterwhite farmhouse. This looks like Sammy’s kids playing outside. Why wouldn’t Sammy keep it?” She set that sketch aside.
“Maybe he has others? Or he hates being reminded of his brother’s failures? Who knows what makes people tick?” He triumphantly retrieved a bent aluminum pole and hunted for the other.
“I thought marketing people knew what makes people tick,” she said in obvious amusement.
“Selling is different. The person is right there in front of you. Talk, figure out what they want, tell them they’ll be rich, famous, glamorous, whatever. Although heck if I knowwhyanyone would want fame and fortune. They’re a bloody nuisance.”
“Said someone who’s never been poor and unattractive.” She came over to examine the damaged poles he’d extricated and to lift Alex off of a teetering stack of boxes.
“I was skinny and spotty as the next kid when I was young. My da was an alcoholic, and we lived on the dole as often as we didn’t. I’ve seen both ends of the spectrum. Worrying about food on the table is a whole lot healthier than having the press clamoring at your door every time you spit in public.” Uncomfortable with expressing his opinion, he carried a bent pole over to his worktable.
“Interesting perspective. I wouldn’t mind experiencing wealth for a while. I’d like to know how it felt not to worry about how to make the mortgage or put Aster through college.”
“Not the same as filthy rich and famous, surrounded by sycophants, not knowing who to trust, and worried your financial advisor is robbing you blind,” he argued.
Huh, where had that come from? He was all about money, which came with a certain degree of recognition.
“OK, I’d rather be comfortable than wealthy.” She held up the second badly bent aluminum pole. “I don’t think these are salvageable. We need to rent a dumpster and clean house.”
