"It's not ticking anymore," David observes, looking down at the cuckoo clock, and he's sounding almost sad.

"Did we kill it?" I ask, and I, too, am feeling sad for some illogical reason I shan't even attempt to explain. It's a clock. It's made of wood. It didn't have feelings, and it doesn't need to be mourned. I feel a little guilty, which also doesn't make sense at all since, technically, David killed it, I just hung around making coffee and saying stupid things.

"I think it was dead long ago," David says, unceremoniously sticking the piece of wooden bird back into its house and closing the door. He rises from his seat and hangs the clock on the wall, and I half expect it to start ticking again, but it remains depressingly quiet, just hanging in its place blindly, its heartbeat gone now.

"I'm sorry," I whisper because it's his clock after all, or at least it's his grandfather's clock, and it might hold sentimental value for the family.

"Just another thing on a very long list of things to get repaired," David shrugs. I think that he might be a very practical man and not half as emotional and sentimental as I am. Well, most people are an adequate amount emotional and sentimental; not everybody is as weepy and filled with feelings as I am... fortunately.

David returns to the island, picks up his mug and downs the last of his coffee. 

"Thanks for the coffee and biscuits," he smiles. "I'll just check on the burning weeds, make sure that I've not set the orchard on fire yet, then I'll come back to take a look at the other clocks."

I rise from my seat, feeling guilty for a completely different reason now.

"I'm sorry, David; I didn't mean to take you away from your work for such a long time. You can take a look at the other clocks when you really have time for it; no need to drop everything you have to do. I know you're busy."

David crosses to the back door and bends down to put on his shoes; he gives me an amused look over his shoulder.

"Belle, I heard the awful racket those clocks kick up; you shouldn't have to put up with that. Getting them to behave is part of my job." He straightens and takes his work gloves from the counter. "This house belongs to my grandfather," he explains, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

"It's been in our family for more generations than I can remember, handed down to the first-born children. It fell into this state when his grandmother inherited it. For some reason, the family locked it up, installed a caretaker on the grounds and abandoned it. I've always been fascinated with this place. As a kid, I used to come here with my grandfather when he came here to check up on it. I want to restore it and make it live again; that task includes repairing the clocks."

He smiles, his eyes caressing the chipped decorative ceiling with the pretty grapevine design, the scuffed wooden cabinets and the cracked stone surfaces and his expression is filled with real love. I envy the look on David's face. I don't think I've ever looked at anything in that way. He is looking past the stray cobwebs and peeling paint and is seeing a thing of true beauty. I follow the path of his eyes with my own, letting my imagination join his and soon, I am starting to see it too.

A warm, friendly kitchen, with giggling children chasing a cat, the smell of delicious food filling the air with tantalising flavours. A smile spreads on my face as the happy family scene unfolds before me, and I get caught up in the moment. The dream shatters and dissipates when I realise that David is watching me with a bemused expression on his handsome face.

"Will it be yours one day?" I ask a little breathlessly, averting my eyes from his intense gaze.

"It's going to be mine now," he states, shrugging when I look up at him again. "My grandfather is in the process of signing it over to me; he doesn't want to leave it to me in his last will and testament; he wants it to be mine now. I'm not sure why that is so important to him; I don't see what difference it makes; I'll restore it either way. I want him to live here with me."

"You're going to live here?" I don't know why the thought is making me feel ridiculously happy. Up until about an hour ago, I was hell-bent on leaving this place. Apparently, I've changed my mind. Luna and her scary antics are a distant memory right now.

"Yup, that's the plan. It's going to take some time, and to be honest; the place is a bit of a money pit at the moment. I might need to sacrifice some of the more valuable antique pieces in the house just to be able to pay for the repairs, but it will be worth it in the end," he says, sounding as if he's trying to convince himself or perhaps, he's trying to convince the house. "I'll make sure of it."

I vaguely wonder why David's father is being bypassed in the chain of possession. I suppose his father should be the next heir to the place since David is a Stirling, like his grandfather; if the house was going to be his mother's, his surname would probably have been something different.

"Don't you have uncles and aunties who should be inheriting it?" I ask, being impressively subtle about what I really want to know.

"My father is an only child, and he has no interest in this place. He told my grandfather to sell it or bequeath it to me rather than to him if I want it. Perhaps he's afraid that his stepchildren will try to get their hands on it somehow," he gives a soft laugh, and I can hear a lot of pain and resentment in that laugh. "Not much chance of that, though. He probably just doesn't want to be bothered with the paperwork."

He scoffs at himself, clearly a little embarrassed about showing and telling so much of what he thinks and feels. I am a stranger, after all.

"If there were caretakers, how did the place fall into this state?" Perhaps, they were all like Ron, useless. Does David know how awful Ron is?

"In the last 20 years or so, the caretakers were only paid to take care of the house. Have it aired out a few times a week and get a cleaning team in to get rid of dust once a month. Keep the driveway clear, make sure that squatters and looters don't get in, that kind of thing.

"My grandfather recently started to rent the place out to artists, and the current caretaker is supposed to look after them. The gardens have unfortunately been left to become what they wanted to become, which is a mess.

"The orchard is in desperate need of care; it's been virtually destroyed by brown rot caused by a fungus. I'm in the process of treating it, and I plan to plant more trees and get La Belle Pêche back to a state that matches its name. The Beautiful Peach. I'll turn the place into a profitable home again. A place to be proud of."

I smile, listening to David talk about his plans. I can see the passion on his face and hear the determination in his voice, and I suddenly wish that I could see the place once he's done with it.

"It is going to be so beautiful," I breathe, picturing his words in my mind. Rolling lawns, lush flowerbeds, and a thriving peach orchard. "It is going to be amazing. I'm glad you're going to save this place; it is rather special."

Special? Am I for real?!

Well, it does let me play in the ocean and paint stunning portraits while I'm sleeping. That is rather special. It is also filled with clocks boisterously ticking away the time, time David is supposed to spend working on the grounds, and I am supposed to be painting.

I don't care. I'm starting to enjoy hanging out in the kitchen.

"I think so too," David's smile is filled with warmth and a touch of nostalgia. "Let me go check on the fire. I'll be right back."

"Oh!" I exclaim, remembering a more urgent need than the noisy clocks. "Before we go tackle the other clocks, would you mind jumping me?"

I know that without context, those were the wrong words to use to voice my request, and if I wasn't painfully aware of it already, David's astonished face is spelling it out for me. Am I inadvertently uttering my hidden desires, or is my brain broken?

"My car!" I shout louder than is strictly necessary, and I can feel my cheeks flushing with heat. "Jump-start my car. I forgot the lights on, the battery is quite dead, and I'll also need to use your spade to dig it out of the mud."

"The battery is in the mud?" David's shock gave way to amusement, which is now being replaced by confusion.

"No, the car is... Well... its wheels are..."

"Sure," he says, slowly nodding his head. "I'll go take a look at the fire, grab the spade and come jump you," he chuckles, turning to open the door when I give him a deadly look. He puts his hand on the doorknob, and that is when we hear the first loud roll of thunder and fat raindrops hit the windows.

I count one, two, three, slapping loudly against the glass, and then I cannot count them anymore as the clouds let go of their burden in a rushing flood, and the world outside disappears in a hazy shower. David is still standing with his hand on the door handle, looking through the little windows in front of his face.

"Well," he finally says, "I guess that takes care of the fire."

He lets go of the doorknob, puts his gloves back on the counter and kicks off his shoes, and then he turns to look at me again, his hands resting on his hips. 

"How about we go murder some more clocks?"

☼☼☼