Page 39 of Taboo
Jason giggles. “We’re here to pick flowers, Mr Hill,” he says, bright and happy.
“Is it okay if we cut some flowers, Mr Hill?” I ask politely.
“Call me Tom. Of course, you can. That’s what they’re here for,” he says with a nod. “Here, you’ll need this.” He hands me a small pair of secateurs.
I smile and take the tool. “Thank you, Tom. And you must call me Amelia.”
Jason leads me toward a bed of purple dahlias, their blooms bold and velvety. I kneel, the grass tickling my knees through the sundress.
“Okay, Jason, you can pick the ones you like, but be gentle—cut just above the leaf node, like this.” I demonstrate, snipping a stem with a soft snap, the dahlia’s head heavy in my hand, its scent earthy and sweet.
Jason watches, his gray eyes wide with focus, and mimics me, his small hands careful but unsteady. “Like this?” he asks, proudly holding up a long flower stem.
“Perfect,” I say, ruffling his curls, my heart swelling at his effort. I’ve tended the garden back home for years, a quiet ritual to comfort myself after Max left, and this feels familiar, healing—kneeling in the dirt, the sun warming my shoulders. We movethrough the beds, collecting a bouquet of dahlias, lavender sprigs, and a few white roses, their petals soft as silk. Tom joins us, his gruff voice offering tips, pointing out a patch of marigolds that “need a bit of love.” I nod, listening, my hands brushing Jason’s as we work together, the flowers piling up in the basket.
Jason holds up a lavender sprig, sniffs it deeply, and sneezes, a tiny, adorable sound that makes me laugh.
“That’s enough now. Let’s take them inside and find a vase,” I say, brushing dirt from my hands.
“These are gonna look awesome on the table,” he says, his cheeks flushed from the sun.
“They will,” I agree, gathering the flowers in my arms.
We wave goodbye to Tom, who tips his hat in response, and heads back to the house. The kitchen is cool, the air is still scented with the morning’s coffee, and I love it. I pull a vase from one of the cabinets, and Jason helps me arrange the flowers. His fingers are clumsy but eager.
“You’re good at this,” I say, nudging his shoulder, and he beams, his shy smile breaking wide, a rare glimpse of the boy beneath the quiet.
My chest aches with a fierce, protective warmth, but as always. it’s laced with guilt. Jason, Max’s son, is the most important piece of the family I’m endangering with every stolen moment.
“Okay, buddy, you did great. Thank you for your help. Want a sandwich? I promise,even with my terrible cooking skills, I can make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich.»
He brightens. "Really? Mummy doesn't like it when I have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches."
I grin. "But you're on vacation, aren't you?"
"Yup. That's what Daddy says."
"Well then. You're allowed."
"Yay."
"Go back to your game, and I'll bring your sandwich and a glass of milk up to your room."
His eyes widen. "Really? I’m allowed to eat in my room?”
“You’re on vacation, right?”
“Right,” he says, rubbing his little palms together.
“Well then… off you go.”
“Thanks, Aunt Amelia," he yells as he runs up the stairs.
I watch him go, then carry the vase to the dining room. I set it on the walnut table, and the flowers are a bright burst against the polished wood. The house is quiet again, the summer sun filtering through the open windows, and it is beyond peaceful. I head to the kitchen and make Jason’s sandwich. I pour a glass of milk and take his lunch up to his room.
I put Jason’s lunch next to him, and he is so engrossed in his game, he mumbles his thanks and reaches for his sandwich without taking his eyes off his screen.
I think of Max as I close Jason’s door and walk down the hallway. I miss him so terribly, it's like a physical ache. The studio is a haven with sunlight pouring through the tall windows, bathing the bookshelves and easel in a golden glow. The air smells of turpentine and old leather. My dragon painting waits, its emerald scales shimmering. I pick up a brush and dip it into a blend of green and yellow. My strokes are bolder today, each one infused with the joy pulsing through me, the memory of Max’s hands, his lips, his love.
