The Artisan Heart

by Dean Mayes

  For the first time in a long time, Hayden agreed.

  Standing in the living room, Hayden turned a slow circle. Most of the repairs were complete now and the living room had taken on a style he’d come to enjoy. It was a reflection of him and his tastes, from the leather armchairs and sofa, to his books, which he had gradually returned to the shelf from storage. He’d even found a couple of artworks he’d bought years ago, when he was still in medical school.

  His eyes fell across the door to his parents’ bedroom.

  A knot twisted inside him as he recalled Isabelle’s stories of Russell.

  Hayden approached the door, hesitating as a familiar inertia weighed him down. This time, however, he pushed back against it, reminding himself of what Isabelle had said about Russell’s desire to talk to him again. And, of course, there were Max’s accounts—how, for a short time at least, Russell had seemingly snapped from his grief just before he died.

  He should believe them, even though a part of him was afraid to.

  Hayden held out his hand to the doorknob, rubbing the tips of his fingers together.

  As he touched the doorknob, memories of his mother coalesced. Her beautiful face, her loving smile—resolute in the face of the cancer that ravaged her.

  Echoes sounded from the past.

  “I’m coming, Mum. I’m coming. I’ll be right there.” His signed promise via the smartphone screen carried across time from a lonely airport gate.

  His hand shook as he turned the knob, preparing to cross a threshold he had avoided for far too long.

  The door opened.

  Shafts of light knifed through the single window, splashing across a cast-iron bed. The first thing Hayden noticed was how neat and tidy the bedroom was. Apart from the dust, it was as though it had been tended to just today. The bed was made up with white linen. A patchwork quilt lay folded at the foot. Pillows were stationed neatly with throw cushions nestled up against them.

  Annette’s work, no doubt. She must have attended to it after he’d gone. Hayden certainly had never left it in such an immaculate state.

  In front of Hayden stood Lavinia’s dresser, its large mirror faced towards the bed. His gaze drifted over items of jewellery, perfume bottles, hair clips, and assorted ephemera on its surface. It was as if they were lying in wait for their owner to return. His eyes fell upon a hairbrush and he lowered his hand, feeling a jolt as he touched strands of hair still entwined in the bristles.

  He turned away quickly, fearful of being overcome.

  Scanning the room, he saw his father’s chest of drawers with various of his belongings sitting on the top. A half-empty bottle of L’Occitane aftershave. An expensive wristwatch, its hands frozen in place at 11:25. A book lay open, its spine facing up. Hayden examined the cover.

  Something for the Pain: One Doctor’s Account of Life & Death in the ER by Paul Austin.

  Hayden’s lips parted.

  Russell was reading this?

  Hayden owned a copy of this book. It was one of the first titles he’d bought when he began working in emergency medicine.

  Bewildered, he held onto the book as he faced the bed.

  The bed was flanked by a pair of stained-glass lamps that stood on a set of matching tables, built by Russell himself. Though simple in design, the level of craftsmanship in the nightstands was exquisite, with brass handles and a pretty vine pattern engraved into each drawer.

  Rounding the bed, Hayden sidestepped along the edge and sat down near the pillows. This was his mother’s side. Setting the book down on the table, he gazed through the window, noting the sway of a tree branch outside. He drifted on its movement for a moment.

  He glanced down at the bedside table, sliding his fingers along its dusty surface. The drawer slid out noiselessly—just as he expected.

  Hayden remembered an oft-quoted piece of advice from his father: Always run a little beeswax on the underside of the runners, to eliminate friction and squeaking.

  The drawer was empty, except for a single key attached to a ring with a medallion of some kind.

  A white cross inside a red circle.

  Hayden sat straighter. Taking the key, he rested it in his palm, the medallion facing up.

  Isabelle’s voice sounded in his mind.

  …A leather case, like a doctor’s bag. It had a white cross inside a red circle. Underneath was a name, your name. H. L. Luschcombe.

  His curiosity piqued as he surveyed the room. Past his father’s chest of drawers, his mother’s dresser and the window, Hayden’s eyes came to rest on the doorway leading into the walk-in wardrobe.

  It wasn’t large, but it had been enough to hold his parents’ belongings. Mum’s on the right. Russell’s to the left.

  Thumbing a switch on the door frame, Hayden blinked as soft light lit the space. His parents’ clothing hung neatly, as if they had just stepped out. Shoes were lined up below, while on the shelves there was a selection of leather handbags, books, the darkened screen of an iPad, and one of those expandable file folders. Hanging from a hook were several brightly coloured scarves, resplendent with abstract patterns.

  His mother had worn these after she had lost her hair.

  Craning his neck, he peered up to the topmost shelf, just out of reach. He found a small stepladder and climbed, bringing his face level with the uppermost shelf. There were a couple of lightweight travelling cases, a stack of cardboard tubes used for storing large documents—his mother’s landscape designs, Hayden surmised—and some unremarkable boxes.

  But there was no bag like Isabelle had described, at least not one he could see. Hayden sighed and prepared to descend when he spied a glint of metal that caught the light. Shifting on the stepladder, Hayden peered into the gloom and moved a hatbox aside to reveal the dark leather surface of a bag.

  The case.

  It resembled a small suitcase. Easing it out, Hayden examined it. It appeared more like a portmanteau suitcase or Gladstone bag. Climbing down and leaving the closet, Hayden set the bag on the bed and stood back, appraising it.

  It looked to be an exquisitely handcrafted simulacrum of an antique original. The dark leather had been polished. The rigid metal spine that held the split opening featured a locking mechanism that had been buffed to a high shine. Below the lock, embossed on the leather face, was the white cross, encircled in a red ring. Below that, in a ruddy gold: “Dr. H. L. Luschcombe.”

  Realising he was holding his breath, Hayden exhaled.

  His father had made this. After his mother had died—during his and Hayden’s estrangement.

  The hours he must have spent on it.

  Hayden still held the key and he turned his attention to it. Would there be anything inside?

  Hayden’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears as he slid the key into the lock and turned, feeling the tumblers submit. He opened the hinged lid.

  Inside was an envelope. Not just one envelope but several, a pile.

  Hayden blinked as he clasped the bundle and the rubber band securing them snapped and perished into flecks.

  The first envelope had a stamp in the upper corner, though it had yet to be addressed. Instead, there was a single word written on its surface in a cursive script: “Hayden.”

  Touching his father’s faded handwriting, Hayden felt his heart leap into the back of his throat.

  He slid to the floor, resting his back against the side of the bed and cradling the envelopes in his hands, struggling to hold back his tears. He took the first one and set the rest beside him on the floor. It hadn’t been sealed. Hayden lifted the flap with his finger and pulled the single sheet of paper from inside.

  A letter.

  As his tears began to fall, Hayden unfolded it, blinking to find the date, which had been written at the top. September. Six months after his mother had died.

  The letter began, “My son, I haven’t known where to begin with this, so I’ll begin here…”

  Even before Hayden reached the end of the first letter from his father, h
e had broken down and wept in the sanctuary of his parents’ room.

  Choking, he whispered a word that had been foreign to him for so long—

  “Dad.”

  ~ Chapter 22 ~

  UNDER AN ORANGE PRE-DAWN SKY STILL LITTERED WITH STARS, ISABELLE AND HAYDEN STOWED FULL BREAD TRAYS into the back of the van.

  They worked quietly, ferrying the day’s orders from the house, which Hayden had offered to deliver so Isabelle could ready the shop. Isabelle couldn’t have wiped the smile from her face, even if she’d wanted to. Nor could she keep her eyes off Hayden. She was warm, despite the mountain chill, and the sensation was unmistakably romantic. While the intensity of it was all at once exciting and exhilarating, it was frightening, too.

  She hadn’t felt this way before—ever.

  As Hayden slid in the last tray and closed the doors, Isabelle took a moment to adjust his woollen beanie. She slid her arms around his waist, coaxing him closer.

  She shook her head slowly, marvelling at him in wonderment. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want to,” Hayden answered. “Because it’s nice to help, and it feels nice to be wanted.”

  “You are appreciated. And wanted,” she said, squeezing him for emphasis, touched and overwhelmed at his sincerity. “I think that’s something we both haven’t felt for far too long.”

  Hayden smiled.

  Movement from the corner of the house caught his attention. Isabelle saw it, too and they turned to see Genevieve, dressed for a winter’s morning. Navy coat, bright red beanie, matching scarf, and gumboots.

  Pointing at the van, she flashed a pleading expression at her mother.

  “Ahh,” Hayden said, looking to Isabelle for a cue. He signed a response. “Perhaps you should stay here. Give your mum a hand with the shop.”

  “No,” Isabelle signed thoughtfully. “You can go out with Hayden. Make sure he delivers all the loaves and doesn’t hide any for himself.” She winked, giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs.

  Needing no further prompting, Genevieve dashed to the passenger door and climbed into the cabin.

  “You’re okay with this?” Hayden asked.

  Isabelle lifted her chin. “I am,” she said, with a confidence he found affecting. She gestured to the van. “Go on. I’ve got work to do and I need coffee.”

  Hayden chuckled and turned to go.

  “Oi!”

  He stopped at the van’s door and turned, finding Isabelle right behind him. She engulfed him in an embrace that sent his mind swirling.

  “Hurry back,” she mumbled between kisses.

  THE BAKERY CONTINUED TO ATTRACT customers throughout the morning. Sliding into a rhythm, Isabelle found she was able to juggle shopfront duties while keeping an eye on the electric oven as it turned out the fresh loaves, pies, Cornish pasties, and sweet goods she’d prepared beforehand. There was no doubt about it—while she loved the challenge of baking in the wood oven, the convenience of its electric counterpart was undeniable.

  She knew business wouldn’t always be this frenetic. The Ljusfest had drawn in considerable numbers of visitors, but once the event finished this coming weekend, she would see a drop in customers, at least during the week. It worried her a little.

  Hayden and Genevieve returned by midday, and together, the trio continued to serve customers well into the afternoon. Hayden had donned an apron and done his best to present himself as a gregarious shop assistant, while Genevieve charmed them by just being her bright and bubbly self.

  By mid-afternoon, Isabelle leaned back against the bench and sighed.

  “Wow,” she exhaled. “That was quite a day.”

  Hayden closed the door and flipped over the ‘closed’ sign. “I think Max was right. You have created a monster.”

  “Oh really,” Isabelle replied, grinning. “He said that?”

  “In the kindest sense, of course.” Hayden indicated through the shop door. “Many of those customers were repeat visitors. Some even same-day repeats. I’ll bet they’ll rave about you. They’ll be back, and in greater numbers. So…” Hayden clicked his tongue. “Monster. This place.”

  Isabelle’s smile broadened as he moved past her through the doorway into the kitchen. He returned moments later with a broom wedged under his arm and Genevieve, standing on the tops of his boots, giggling hysterically. As she clutched his hands tightly, he ferried her along, loping about the shop. Isabelle laughed along with them.

  He stopped in the middle of the shop, and Genevieve jumped off his boots and curtsied to her mother, who applauded.

  As Hayden began sweeping, Isabelle studied him. “You’re so confident about this,” she said with a hint of disbelief.

  “Yes.” His response was matter-of-fact, as though it should be obvious to everyone. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  Isabelle shook her head and chuckled. “It’s just—I haven’t had many champions in my life. It’s…nice.”

  She pushed off from the counter, opened the register and began counting out the day’s takings, but she quickly gave up, closing the cash drawer. “Lord, I think I need to sit down,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been up since two and my eyes are about ready to fall out of my head.”

  Isabelle retreated into the kitchen, and Hayden and Genevieve followed her. She slumped down into a chair and put her head in her arms. “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse, but I can’t bear the thought of cooking right now.”

  After stowing the broom away, Hayden turned and flashed her a smile.

  “How about I cook us something?” he suggested.

  Isabelle lifted her head. “You can cook?”

  Hayden feigned an expression of mock hurt, and she winced. “That came out wrong. What did you have in mind?”

  Hayden turned to the refrigerator and opened the door. He rummaged inside, picking out ingredients one after another and setting them on the bench. An onion, garlic, some crushed ginger in a jar he regarded with a hint of dissatisfaction, tomatoes and green beans, some homemade stock, and some fillets of breast chicken.

  Harrumphing victoriously, he closed the door and went across to Isabelle’s pantry.

  Isabelle watched him with growing fascination. He seemed possessed. Genevieve was equally awestruck by Hayden’s behaviour.

  To the ingredients on the table, Hayden added a selection of spices—mustard seeds, turmeric, chilli, and some garam masala. He finished with a tub of rice and a can of coconut milk. Standing back, he placed his hands on his hips. “How does a chicken curry sound?” He signed his suggestion for Genevieve’s benefit.

  Mother and daughter exchanged impressed smirks.

  “That sounds like one hell of a dinner,” Isabelle remarked.

  “Okay. Chicken curry it is.” He pointed a finger at Isabelle. “You. Upstairs. Draw yourself a hot bath while I get this started.” He turned towards Genevieve. “And you. You can come and help me prepare this. Onions make me tear up hopelessly.”

  Isabelle got up from her seat and floated towards Hayden. She kissed him sweetly. His smile faded for an instant. “Of course, it is okay if I stay for dinner, isn’t it?”

  She slapped his chest and disappeared up the stairs.

  GENEVIEVE FELT AS THOUGH THEY were dining like royalty.

  So thrilled was she at having contributed to this exotic dish and setting the table—complete with a checkered cloth and the correct placing of the cutlery (under Hayden’s guidance)—she sat as proud as could be all through the dinner, and much to her mother’s delight, she cleaned her dish of every last morsel. She even went in for another helping.

  All the while, Genevieve watched her mother and Hayden. The way they stole affectionate glances at each other. How their hands disappeared under the table and how they sometimes talked without signing.

  Normally, Genevieve would be grumpy with anyone who excluded her, but her joy at seeing her mother like this cancelled it out. For as long as Genevieve could remember, despite everything that her mother did to make her life
safe and happy, she rarely saw her mother happy herself. To see her mum so happy in the company of someone like Hayden—Genevieve felt as though she would burst.

  After dinner, Genevieve helped Hayden clear away the dishes, then she trooped upstairs with her mother to get ready for bed.

  Hayden stoked the living room fire and relaxed on the sofa. He did not want to interrupt their little bedtime ritual. Whatever was happening between Isabelle and him—lovely though it was—he recognised that Genevieve needed the stability of her own routine.

  Happy with his efforts, Hayden closed the door to the heater and sat back on the sofa. He rubbed his chin.

  Genevieve’s freshly scrubbed face appeared in the entrance to the room and she grinned.

  “Hello there,” Hayden signed, twisting to face her. “What are you up to?”

  “I want to say good night,” Genevieve answered, smiling, shifting Lily and Rameeka under her elbow so she could proffer her thumbs-up before drawing her flattened hands down and across her chest like the wings of a dove.

  Hayden patted the sofa and she came and sat down beside him. A curious expression crossed his face and Genevieve followed his line of sight to the pyjamas underneath her dressing gown. They were adorned with elephants.

  “What is it with you two ladies and elephants?” Hayden queried with a grin, tugging at her sleeve.

  “They’re my favourite animal,” Genevieve signed. “They’re strong and loyal. Mum says they’re more intelligent than humans.”

  Hayden chuckled. “I suspect she’s right.”

  “I think you’re like an elephant,” Genevieve signed, pointing at Hayden’s chest.

  Hayden leaned back, scoffing as he spied Isabelle appearing around the doorway, holding a mug. She smiled at the pair.

  “Well,” Hayden began. “I think you’re an elephant too—and I think your Mum is an elephant, as well. ”

  Isabelle feigned offense and Genevieve collapsed onto him in a fit of gleeful gurgling that sounded like Donald Duck.

  Hayden lifted her back up and pecked her forehead. “Good night, kiddo.”

  Genevieve once again gave him the sign for “good night.” She trooped out of the living room, rounding her mother, and hurried up the stairs.