Page 78 of In the Frame

“They must all be so proud of you,” Mum remarks.

Florian smiles, but I can see it doesn’t reach his eyes. My family won’t know the difference. But I do. “They appreciate my accomplishments,” he says smoothly. “My parents are also very driven in their careers.”

I can’t say I’m feeling particularly driven about my career path at the minute. Instead, I glance at Florian, who sits beside me. I wonder what the rest of his business investments are like. Or if he’s only driven by profits.

Then Maggie diverts the conversation to how her bunny had babies, and the twins give an inventory of the extensive number of pets under our roof, from goldfish to the dog and cat. When Florian says he doesn’t have any pets, they’re scandalized. And when he tells them he had adopted an old senior cat who eventually went on to kitty heaven, they’re both delighted that he’d save an old cat and also sad that she died.

I don’t know how to read Florian. Especially this charming version of Florian that my family’s fallen for just as much as I have. It’s so hard to reconcile with what he’s doing with the Rose.

After dinner, we help with the clearing up, and Florian insists on helping with the dishes, which is essentially us loading the dishwasher. The twins go to play outside in the garden after they’ve brought everything inside. Leila retreats to her room. Dad goes back to the pub. Mum tells us we can have more pie if we want, but we’re stuffed. She puts the kettle on for tea if we would like any. Her phone rings, and she excuses herself to go answer, leaving Florian and me standing in the kitchen, leaning against opposite counters, waiting for the kettle. The sun’s lowering, and the garden has long shadows. It’s warm and bright, and the evening light has a golden glow.

Florian’s quiet, watching me. At last, he speaks. “I should probably go soon. Let you get on with your evening.”

Then, I swallow hard, shaking my head. “Not yet. I need to show you something.”

His eyebrow lifts, and I redden. “Not like that.”

He laughs, and I laugh, and it cuts the tension.

“If you’d like, I could show you a few of my paintings,” I say.

His eyes widen, and instinctively, Florian moves closer. I don’t know if he even realizes. “I would love to see your work.”

Soon, we take our tea upstairs, up the back of the house on the narrow staircase that leads to the loft extension.

“This house is very beautiful. It feels like a proper home,” Florian tells me as we walk down the hall to my studio room. “Mine feels so spartan.”

“You do have a lot of blank walls, I couldn’t help but notice,” I say.

Family pictures hang on the wall, with a handmade quilt draped over the staircase guardrail. The cat pads past us as if she’s off to do something important.

“That’s Misty,” I say, opening the door to my loft studio. It’s warm and darkish in here, and I immediately open the closest skylight for fresh air. The room smells faintly of oil paints. I turn on the studio lights.

Chapter Forty-Four

Florian gazes around, taking in the sight of my studio. There’s a large H-frame easel in the corner toward the peak of the roof. Beside it is a storage rack holding medium to large canvases. “My dad built this to store my paintings,” I explain. We walk past a bookcase full of old sketchbooks and art reference books, cups of colored pencils and markers. There’s a table against the wall at the back, close to one of the skylights for coveted natural light. I hesitate, looking around. Everything’s tidy and in order. I fidget with the band of my watch.

“I’ve never visited an artist’s studio before.” Florian smiles warmly at me. “It means a lot to see this, Matty. Thanks.”

I shrug a shoulder. “My parents have been very generous since I was in school, giving me the space to paint.”

“I can see why this would be hard to leave.”

“Mm.” I nod, conceding the point, and walk over to the rack. Chewing my lower lip, I steel my courage and pull out the first painting as Florian comes to stand beside me. The canvas shows a beach scene in warm colors, somewhat abstract, with figures painted in a minimalist and expressive style where my paint strokes are visible.

“Wow,” says Florian, leaning in. “Matty, this is gorgeous.”

I flush. “I don’t know. From Brighton Beach, last summer.”

“I think this is beautiful,” Florian tells me with frank openness.

My lips twitch as I try to suppress a wry smile. “I’ve taught you everything you know about art,” I chide. “But your knowledge is quite limited.”

Florian laughs. “Maybe. But this feels like summer. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well… that’s what I was going for, anyway. I’ll give you that much.”

He looks terribly pleased.