There was a moment when Faun caught a glimpse of Grant as they were sitting facing each other slightly at the small square wood kitchen table after he had poured the wine. The lights had felt too bright, so, Faun took out some wide pillar candles and set one at the table and one on the counter by the sink and one above the stove on the little ledge by the spice cabinet.
It was the way the lighting —or lack there of— seemed to allow some layers to drop. As it seemed.
He must be thinking of Fiona, Faun could sense it, and it did not require a seance to sense his mood, despite ….as Halloween loomed everywhere, somehow the feel of the Bishop’s ghosts loomed a little too near.
She had wanted to ask him about if he needed help with ….the funeral—or what was even happening about it but, how to ask and at the appropriate moment?
“Do you need help with —their arrangements?” Faun blurted out because his face looked suddenly vulnerable. Which was very becoming on him, somehow; it was something about those poet’s eyes of his and the pout of his mouth when he got to brooding. As she had seen him do. He’d tug at his beard and bite his lip as deep creases dug between his thick, pensive brows—as he did now; something Byronic; that indescribable thing about him that made her melt whenever he looked at her —or sat in front of her….like now ….
He looked back at her now as she reached for his hand and those meadows drew her in
Slowly, he smiled but she noticed that his eyes were suddenly a bit bloodshot. His fingers tightened slightly as he looked at her. He said softly,
“thank you—I’ll let you know ….” then sighed but after a pensive pause he reached for a wine glass, clinked it to hers and said, “you know, they would want us to toast them,” he forced a smile, “but—yeah….I am glad you are here.”
It was the openness there in his eyes at that moment that she could not help but be caught under. He was saying more with his eyes as he looked right at her. It was this moment when Faun understood what it was about him; that quiet poet within that never spoke what he felt and most believed it was not there but she saw it all in his eyes. And in the tones he spoke in. Even his pauses spoke volumes. And she had no idea why she could see all this —she could not know. Unless it was something possibly familiar had she been more self aware. And she was attracted to this about him. It was even more intense for her than just his natural air of masculinity that he exuded in the most unconscious and minuscule of ways.
It was that, ultimately that …. and it was just after their toast to the Bishops—and it could be the wine went to her head and made her do it —and it might have been, too, the loosened tie he wore and flannel jacket, the scruffy beard or that pout? It had to be his eyes that made her stand up and go over to him. She slid, facing him and climbed into his lap, putting her arms around his neck, her burgundy dress falling in long folds across her hips as her legs went around him on the chair, kissing him full on the mouth, her hands and fingers in his hair
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