a well respected man

Sama’s impromptu shopping trip with Naomi had been the respite she needed it to be, but it wasn’t enough. As soon as they’d pulled back into the long, gravel drive she’d wanted to leave again. Instead, she’d parked the car, gathered her purchases, and made her way inside, like an adult. She’d hung her dress for the gala up in her room and strode down the hall to the art room, like an adult. She’d laid out her supplies—a broad-edge nib for the old calligraphy pen she hadn’t realized she left behind when she moved out, fresh ink, and two pads of paper, one for practice and one for the final product—like an adult. 

Things fell apart after that. Since she’d started working for the UN, any trip anywhere in the Middle East had to include a stop to get a new qalam. These days, that was all she used for calligraphy in Arabic. Now, she was paying the price for her indulgence as she struggled to smoothly form the fluid characters with a metal nib. She’d even moved to the floor, sitting with one leg tucked beneath her and the other pulled up to support her paper, in the traditional posture for a novice calligrapher. When the pen caught and spat ink yet again, ruining the last clean corner of her third sheet of practice paper, she threw it down and cursed, loudly. 

It wasn’t until she rolled her shoulders and looked up in an attempt to stretch her spine that she caught sight of Angus seemingly lingering in the doorway. She welcomed the distraction, shifting slightly and letting her legs fall into a more natural, cross-legged pose. “Are you lost?” She raised her eyebrows as a half-smile flirted with the corners of her mouth, almost overtaking her earlier frustration. As she remembered it, he’d always been more of a connoisseur of the visual arts than an active contributor.

He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes darting twice between Sama's face and the pad of paper. "And you had the kind of look on your face just then that had me worried I'd end up on the wrong side of that pen." As he approached her, he paused to bend down and pick up the paper. Except for the splotches of black ink in one corner, what she had down was remarkably pretty. Angus turned it in his hold, appraising it, though he knew no angle would suddenly render him capable of reading and understanding Arabic. "What does it say?" he asked.

By nature, Celia avoided unwanted eyes on her, since those looks often accompanied snide, or worse, pathetic, eyes and comments about her mother. She was used to securing the gate that held her emotions about Gloria with thick, iron bars. But another gate pulled her in the opposite direction--the little girl whose hair would bounce when she bowed after a performance in front of the professors that both Richard and her mother entertained. The talent show would be a sweet homage to both of them, she thought. Especially since her mother wasn't allowed to attend the wake.

Sun rang in on the music stands, an invitation to linger, and so Celia let her hands adjust the stand and strum the cello, her cello, that still sat on display. It had been years since she picked up the instrument–convenient excuses running through her brain of why she had forgotten something that once filled her with such joy-no space in the house, no time after work, all hollow. She sat down in front of the cedar chest that held their vast collection of potential options for the talent show. Her fingers flicked their the pages, a layer of dust fanning her skirt as she began laying pieces out on the floor.

A light rattling on the door and Celia turned around with a small smile. "Remember this one?" She chuckled, displaying the piece for Angus before flopping it down on the ground. "I was thinking maybe something by Stravinsky, since Richard loved him, but what do you think?"

By the time Angus turned 15, he took to referring to it as the violin. Gone were the folk tunes and in came the high school chamber orchestra-mandated Shostakovich's, Bacewicz's, and Dvořák's. His musical life, going forward, would be inundated with concertos and requiems. But he didn't mind it so much — not when, on the rare occasion, Uncle Richard would poke his head in the music room while he practiced, asking him with well-bred affability: is that Corelli? Oh, he is enormously underappreciated. Could you start again from the beginning?

He smiled — faintly, insufficiently — when Celia turned the sheet of music toward him when he entered the room. "I remember the way it rattled around my mind and haunted my dreams for weeks afterward, if that's what you mean, yes," Angus answered, glancing around at the others she'd unearthed. Stravinsky, Celia named. He shrugged. "I don't have much of a preference," he said, though that was largely a lie. If she had suggested Wagner, there might have been a problem.

"What was it you were thinking — the Pulcinella Suite?"

That would be like being afraid of a stapler. Or myplate.gov. Yes, one carried weight, emitted some sharps, and could be bit loud when it was particularly determined. The other did have that crisp federal branding, sprinkled with a touch of jargon that conveyed Much Importance to make you feel the necessary degree of shame when it reminded you to eat more vegetables.

But when you knew these things about office supplies and the government's leading nutrition tool, understood why they were they way they were, being intimidated by them was sort of stupid.

So no, Francesca Westmacott was not afraid of Angus Byrne.

But maybe Frankie was a little scared of the way Angus made her feel.

It wasn't just his tone that made her heart quiver a bit, though that was part of it. She had heard it before, diluted. When she overslept the first day of freshman year and had been told in no uncertain terms she had a tight five minutes to pull herself together. There was that (ONE) time she had been caught before mass with her friends trying a celebratory joint after finals week behind the school chapel.

It was the blink-and-you-miss-it pause when Angus caught sight of her that stuttered the bounce in Frankie's own step, sending a small splash of coffee over the rim of the mug in her hand. Her gait smoothed and she stopped just short of him, the only way out with Angus was through, but that rattled, desperate feeling had already begun slowly seeping into her bones: I am in trouble with him, and more importantly, I don't want to be.

She eyed him, tongue darting out to lick up a coffee drip from the side of the mug before it could stain the carpet. He was all business, but this was Performance Review where he was normally Casual Friday, and he was a little mean with it.

"Mr. Byrne." Frankie caught the edge to his tone, put it in her mouth and chewed on it until she could blow it back out like bubblegum. "Good morning, fine weather we're having. I should check with my secretary." She closed her eyes, nose scrunching up in thought. A beat later her lashes fluttered open. "You're in luck, he can move my eleven-thirty."

But Frankie had never been inauthentic. Winsome, funny, and kind — it always appeared to come naturally to her. She was, as always, an exception to a rule. Not an act nor deceit, her agreeability was hard to find fault with. He certainly never could. Angus watched her squeeze her eyes shut. He watched her wrinkle up her nose. He nearly smiled at her response. "He sounds markedly more agreeable than my own," he noted dryly, thinking of Heather and her habit of snapping her fingers or tapping her acrylic nails on his desk to grab his attention. He pocketed the key to Uncle Richard's office.

He tilted his head in a signal of the direction he was headed, the unspoken follow me obvious. Angus spent so much time telling people where to go, an easy dip or gesture was all that was needed to communicate that desire most of the time. As they took off toward the stairs, he continued. "You never did call me back, you know," he pointed out, voice carefully even, as though picking up a conversation put on hold. "Which I found interesting, given that you had four days' worth of time to do so." No direct why? No direct accusation.

Angus paused, but not long enough for her to answer his non-questions before he added on: "Text messages don't count, especially not lamentably unclear ones."

Though some of that trust had slightly eroded in the past 24 hours, Reuben was fine with going a bit neurotic trying to ascertain whether Angus still cared for him or at the very least enjoyed his company.

Angus was correct. Reuben was in fact displeased with the plan in place for tomorrow. He needed to quickly find a way to put himself out of commission. His eyes narrow. The personal call to action was a nice touch, he cocked a brow with piqued interest. “Can you count on me?” No. “Sure,” He wanted back in on the good side. He sighs and straightens, eyes flit across Angus’ features one last time. “Well if that’s everything, I’m leaving so I can beat your ass in this scavenger hunt,” a small smirk pulls at the corner of his lips.

As loath as he was to admit it, Angus did feel the tension in his shoulders ease a small increment at Reuben's sure. He hadn't expected the other man to do a cartwheel or a back handspring out of sheer unquenchable excitement at the idea—it would've shocked Angus stupid if Reuben could manage either—so a lukewarm sure was what he would take. It didn't matter if everyone wasn't exhilarated, so long as they showed up. He largely preferred that Reuben was there.

"That's everything" Angus confirmed. "I'll be out there tomorrow starting at 8. It's going to be a warm day. Dress for the work accordingly." It was said with the air of a boss closing out an all-hands meeting—like someone who'd later forward you a survey in your email for feedback and questions about the main points that they don't actually care to hear or answer. He entertained Reuben's beat your ass comment with a thin smile.

"I wish you the best of luck." A pause then. He thought about the strive for independence, the desire to accomplish something on one's own, then felt a tug at something remarkably juvenile within him. It came from a similar place as when he tripped Rueben up—familial and immature. As Reuben started off toward the door, Angus felt the need to tack on: "Do let me know what you find by the fountain."

“Okay, well I think you’re lying to me,” he states plainly. This was a rare occurrence. He never spoke plainly about anything, always a secondary punchline waiting to surprise. He so badly wanted to turn on his heel and leave Angus and his ideas but curiosity always got the better of him. As he chews his lip, he searches Angus’ measured expression for a single sign. They should never play poker together. “What?” He asks, after a few beats.

Why why why. Angus had enough money to fund all the antacids it would take to uncomfortably conceal lifelong secrets. He internally repeated to himself that he wasn't upset with Reuben and that nothing overtly bothered him right now; he reminded himself he was coping remarkably well—that perhaps a study could be done on just how remarkably he was coping. It was, obviously, remarkable. And he was glad if he'd managed to at all convince the other man his worries were largely in his head. As cruel as it may have seemed, it was a useful tactic to lean on. His behavior was normal. He was his normal self.

All it took was overarching control, planned structure, and constant prayers sent to a higher power in hopes of ongoing anesthetization in return. No sweat. And so—"I've come up with a plan for tomorrow that I imagine you won't be too pleased with right out the gate." A pause. "The greenhouse requires some minor sprucing," Angus continued, making a concentrated effort to maintain eye contact. If his mind drifted again, the day really would be a lost cause. "I could personally use your help." He paused again.

"Can I count on you?" It was a not-uncommon prompt from Angus' mouth. It was probably said just as often as he barked let's please grease the wheels when he felt Reuben was too slow in leaving a location.

There’s a moment for the Yale shirt. Then another where he ponders parodying Jess Mariano’s “No Yale? Why did you drop out of Yale?” But he presumes it would fall on deaf ears and he didn’t really want to explain five seasons of Gilmore Girls lore this morning either. He responds to Angus’ question with, “I don’t think there’s anyone who needs reminding you went to Yale,” before the sunglasses are pushed atop his head and he reacts as though someone has blinded him. He shuffles behind Angus, “Can I take a sick day? I didn’t get a chance to get a doctor’s note but I can get you one tomorrow,” he would be of no use to them in a state like this anyways.

The truth was, she probably would have taken it upon herself to fix the Greenhouse on her own at some point, so she felt a relief in not only knowing that that wasn't the case, but that she got to do it with her siblings.

Bright eyes met Angus in front of the greenhouse in the early morning, although she noticed a lack of many other early risers joining them. It's okay, not everyone was as excited as the two of them, she thought, and knew they would come in due time. Angus fell into being in charge easily, and Celia felt a familiar sense of gratitude and comfort in following his lead. "Morning, Captain," she chirped, already putting on a pair of garden gloves that lay in an organized line up. "What's first on the agenda?"

Handing her a trash bag from the roll at his feet, he followed up the action with a question: "You used to spend a lot of time out here, didn't you?" It was one of those facts about a person that Angus liked to keep tucked away, handy for birthdays and holidays that required gift-giving. One year, when Angus had driven himself and Reuben back to Woodrow for Thanksgiving, he'd noted that Reuben had the habit of pointing out every single cow, horse, and sheep they passed on the way. It was a fact he tucked away so that, naturally, Angus gifted him a membership to the zoo for his birthday the following year.

Perhaps Celia would appreciate free access to the Pine Hollow Arboretum for Christmas. "I never really did, myself."

While Sama had her own opinions about whether or not they should be wasting a whole day on cleaning up the greenhouse, that didn’t stop her from showing up at the appointed time, ready to work. Although, ready to work was a moving target, considering she hadn’t packed with the idea that she’d be doing yardwork during her sojourn at Woodrow House. So Sama had to make do with what she had, which looked a lot like what she usually wore to pilates. Capri length yoga pants and cropped t-shirt that she may or may not have stolen from Brittany in college were serviceable enough, although she would have preferred to have her whole legs covered, but footwear was the biggest problem. Her best option was a pair of canvas tennis shoes that were still bright white, but doubtless wouldn’t be once the day was done.

She wasn’t at all surprised to see Angus standing outside the greenhouse when she got there, equipped with a notebook that probably contained a comprehensive to-do list complete with sub categories and necessary supplies. She raised her eyebrows at him in a ‘is that really the tone you want to be taking?’ look, but she did grab a pair of gloves. “You know when this is all over, you’re going to owe me a new pair of Keds.”

Perhaps many of his now-pseudo-siblings thought him overbearing at times, but he was of the mind that he could've been far, far more intrusive. All that to say that he could tell that Sama was not pleased with him, or with his performance the day before. He wasn't sure if the truth that he'd come by the clue entirely by chance would help or hurt the situation.

But she was speaking to him now. Perhaps she was ready to let bygones be bygones. It had just been a silly game, after all. Angus read her expression plainly, already recalibrating in the shadow of it, before his eyes fell on the sight of her squeaky clean canvas sneakers. He inhaled through his slightly bared teeth as he tucked the notebook under one arm.

"I'm honored you're willing to dirty this pair in the first place," he said, meeting her gaze again. "You're more than free to send me the bill for the replacement. And listen—you're in luck. I've just completed taking a full inventory. How keen are you to tackle some cracked planters with me?" Angus' hand was still lightly bandaged from the damage one of them did to him the other day.

A shoebox stowed beneath a loose floorboard, home to concrete nouns kept hidden (as opposed to all of the less corporeal things that one might feel compelled to hide). It felt familiar, proverbial and adolescent, unceremonious. It was usually hard for Reece to imagine what Angus had been like before they’d met: almost eight years her senior, he’d been a bona-fide grown up when Reece had moved into the Woodrow House in fifth grade. For all that Reece knew, Angus had emerged from the womb this way: serious and imperious and a good two feet taller than Reece — (she’d been so grateful for the following Great Growth Spurt of Eighth Grade that manifested in the form of twelve wiry inches, agonizing growth pains and all; that and the drinking had made her feel so grown up.)

I know they can’t stay here now. Reece’s throat constricted with the threat of tears, surprising her. She blinked them back, biting on her lip and trying to ignore the way that loss was advancing in on her from just beyond the horizon. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, and anyways, she didn’t trust herself to speak, so she listened, instead, leveling her breathing as Angus presented his minor childhood treasures — things that had belonged to her brothers. Rote memory, a force of habit, Reece reached up to wrap a loose hand around the silver necklace that had once belonged to her grandmother. Everything seemed so significant, so somber, so fragile, and it made her kind of afraid. She didn’t know if she could take it. She wanted to crack a joke, bite her nails, pull her hair. She wanted to turn back time to a week ago, or longer, much longer.

Angus flicked one blade open, pressing the pad of his finger against the still faintly sharp edge of the knife before he closed it again. The sting of it felt familiar, the sound of it snapping shut somewhat mundane. It was the same as before, which lent no logic to the quick way his heart beat in his chest. He thumbed at the handle. It was made of a smooth ebony wood. Tucked away, he knew there were two carbon steel blades—spear point and pen. Nickel silver bolsters, liners, handle pins, and an inlaid bow tie shield decorated the outside. It was made in Germany. It was an antique. Angus wasn't going to tell Reece how much it was worth. He moved it around his fingers, watching it carefully, then stopped himself. Angus swiftly counted down from three in his head, then handed it out toward her. For a moment, he didn't pretend indifference.

"You can use the underside of a ceramic coffee mug to sharpen that up," he advised her. He wanted to say: you remind me of him. He wanted to say: you always did. He should have wanted to say: I think that's the problem, sometimes. But he didn't say any of it. Angus closed the shoebox and placed it on his bed, then rearranged the floorboard to cover the evidence of his not-so-forgotten paranoia and suffocated grief to revisit later. There were things in there that needed to be moved that he preferred to not have an audience for. The half-whittled bear went into his breast pocket without much thought. With his hands free, he tucked them into the pockets of his pants. Shoulders aligned straight, spine unbending, he felt a little more in control.

"Thank you for your help." He looked at the knife in her hands, cleared his throat, then nodded toward the door. "If you're still amenable, we can head back down."