Too Much To Hide || EDITING

c.11

      A buzzing phone disrupts the bonding. Adrian gives me an expectant look and I collect James from him, cuddling him into my chest. Free of the weight, Adrian smoothly slides off his stool and goes to the patio door to answer his call.

      "Portia, what did James eat?" I ask curiously, patting down the child's wayward hair.

      Portia comes over to collect Adrian's bowl, smeared with remnants of mayonnaise. "For breakfast, I gave him a bottle of milk and before you came down, I fed him a few pieces of chicken."

      "Oh, so he can eat solid food?" 

      Portia laughs at me and a soft red colours my cheeks.

      "He's about one now so yes, he's alright with solid food." Portia gives me an assuring squeeze on my shoulder before attending to the dishwasher.

      I look down at James in mock-anger. "Why didn't you tell me that?"

      His answering sentence comes out in indignant babbling, waving his puffy arms around and accidentally smacking my chin. He stares at me, doe-eyed, but a smile cracks on my face.

      Placing a wet kiss on his pink cheek, I secure a hold under his arms before I step down from my own stool.

      "I'm just going to the hallway, Portia," I tell her as I pad out of the dining area. I hear a distinct approval and sneak a playful grin at James, who gives me his own.

      When I arrived last night, I remember walking through a corridor that resembled a makeshift gallery. It wasn't too narrow, nor too wide, but gave the feeling of an art exhibition by the amount of paintings hanging on the beige walls.

      Completely flunking my sense of direction, I turn into a random corridor and end up exactly where I wanted to go.

      Many portraits line the length of the corridor, all drawn on pure canvas with thick strokes of oil paint. They all give a medieval vibe but the scenes vary from animals to certain people doing certain jobs.

      The first painting we come across has a dog pouncing through a wheat field, a large tongue hanging from a toothy grin. I giggle at the picture and point to the animal.

      "Doggy," I tell James, who stares at it intently. 

      For some reason, I feel like he is going to repeat it until he blows a raspberry, squealing and slapping my shoulder. No harm in taking it slow.

      "Ah look," I catch his attention as I shuffle over to stand in front of the next portrait. 

      A vase, painted with strokes of multiple shades of grey, accommodates three sunflowers, each pointing in three different directions.

      I show James the yellow petals, "Sunflower,"

      "Fow," He tries, smiling at me. I give him an appraising grin and tap his nose playfully.

      "Great job!"

      From the corner of my eye, I see the exit of the corridor that leads to the winding grand stairs. Adrian flashes past, practically sprinting up the steps as if he is being chased.

      He's in such a hurry, it startles me. Even James stares, bemused. That phone call must have been pretty important. Losing interest in the portraits, I guide us back to the kitchen island and take my seat to finish the rest of my salad.

      Several times, James tries to either smack my fork or grab the piece of chicken stabbed on it but I deftly move my head to make sure the food ends up safely in my mouth, away from the clutches of the child. Although, I sneak a few tiny piece of chicken into his mouth.