The Clouds Aren't White by Rachael Wright

Author:Rachael Wright [Wright, Rachael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rachael Wright LLC
Published: 2016-01-31T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

After the pain subsides in the half-light of the garage, I look up and my eyes alight on a shape on the floor. Beside the car is Sophie's owl. A beat up little thing, well loved. I'm not sure what propels me through the door, but I feel myself rise and scoop up the owl. Sophie's right where I left her. Ensconced in her room. She's already hung up her clothes and proceeds to take the pieces of her bed out from their cardboard packaging and laying them delicately on the hardwood floor. I smile at her from the doorway, smiling at her tiny little body struggling to lift the pieces. The picture of Hugh she carries everywhere is set lovingly on the windowsill overlooking the loch. She smiles up at me and resumes the unpacking. I slouch against the door, spent. There's no energy left to bother with being overwhelmed. For tonight it'll be beds, dinner, and showers.

Sophie and I trek back downstairs in search of tools. I labeled every box before it was shipped from Colorado but it seems to have done little good. When we find the toolbox at long last, I am dripping with sweat from heaving the boxes to and fro. We are halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rings. My legs seem to quake with frustration.

"Who's that?" Sophie says, craning her head around towards the door.

"I'm not sure...here take these tools, Sophie, and I'll meet you in your room."

The door looms in front of me and I seized with fear. All alone in this house...but I open the door anyways, taking hold of the brass knob with sudden force.

"Mrs MacArthur?"

In the doorway stands a tall man with dark wavy hair, a weather beaten face, and a low gravely voice.

His eyes are a pale blue and in the light from the house. He looks like a marauding Viking raider.

"Yes?" I say, aware my face is shining with sweat and my hair is in tatters.

"I'm Ian. I live down the way," he says, jerking his head to the left motioning down the road, "These were delivered by accident to my home. I think the driver was confused about the address."

In his hands are a large pizza box and a bottle of wine.

"I didn't order anything," I say, feeling more than nervous about opening the door.

"Oh, ah...here 'tis." Ian says and reaches into his pocket for a piece of folded paper.

Emmeline,

Do you know how hard it is to find a pizza place in Portree that'll deliver?Your mom reminded me you’d be hungry. Enjoy the pizza and wine.

Dad.

"Was it funny?" Ian's deep voice rumbles out. The smile slides from my face.

"Oh no, just sweet," I say, ogling the ten-year-old ChateauNeuf Du-Pape merlot.

"Ah, from Mr MacArthur?" He says with a kind expectant smile.

There's no warning, my throat constricts like a vice and my palms begin to sweat. I look up at the man standing on my threshold. He doesn't seem dangerous. If anything he seems sad, a strange pain lurks behind his eyes.

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