Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Anything but art.
The one thing Gideon had loved beyond all else was the only thing his father disapproved of. He hadn’t set out to thumb his nose at his dad, but once it became clear that he would never have the old man’s approval or support, he’d gone all in with the tattoo work. What had been a passing interest had become an unwanted career. And he’d given it his all, even going so far as to open his own place.
What a fucking mistake that had been. He’d known pretty early on that it was not for him, but it was better than doing nothing. And if he happened to make a success of it, so much the better.
He shook his head and glared through his front window at the house across the road.
Damn her for stirring all of this shit up again.
He grabbed his sketchbook, needing to channel some of his anger somewhere. Within minutes his rage-sketching had transformed into something more calming, and he found himself absorbed in every line and curve of the image he was crafting. The light was low, but he didn’t care. He sat down at his kitchen counter, hunched over his sketchpad as he created.
“You’re spending a lot of time with this boy, hey?” Beth nearly jumped out of her skin when the voice floated toward her from the front garden of the house next to Gideon’s.
Aunty Naz!
“Jeez, Aunty Naz,” Beth croaked. “You scared me.”
“I’m out having a ciggie, man,” the older woman said. “I mos can’t help it you didn’t see me sitting here, plain as day.”
Her accent—common among the mixed-race people of Cape Town—was thick and her voice rose and fell with each word.
“Your bougainvillea is out of control, I can’t tell when you’re in your garden,” Beth complained, making her way to Aunty Naz’s gate until she finally spotted the woman sitting on a stone bench behind the thick bougainvillea. The red tip of her cigarette glowed as she inhaled more smoke into her lungs.
“Anyway, I was saying,” Aunty Naz said, through a cloud of exhaled smoke. “I noticed you and Gideon have been visiting each other a lot. He’s a nice boy, Junie would like him.”
“It doesn’t matter what Granny June would have thought of him,” Beth said firmly. “I d-don’t like him.”
She cringed inside as she realized that those words were becoming less and less true every day.
“Really?” She could hear the absolute incredulity in the older woman’s voice. “Why not? He’s handsome and kind. I wonder what your granny would think of you sleeping at a man’s house when you don’t like him?”
Beth went bright red and stared at the thin, elderly woman who sat hunched over, with her legs folded one over the other. Her lively gaze, narrowed against the smoke, pinned Beth to the spot.
Aunty Naz lifted her cigarette to her lips and left it dangling there in order to free up her hands. She pinched the front of her bright pink hijab between her thumbs and forefingers to tug it further forward over her hair, before reaching for the cigarette again.
“And didn’t he fix your roof the other day?” she asked through another stream of smoke.
“My gutters. He did that because he was worried that it would hurt someone.”
“So he’s not your boyfriend?”
The question startled a genuine laugh from Beth. “No, he’s not.”
“I see how he likes to watch you. Maybe he wants to be your boyfriend.”
He watched her? Beth wasn’t sure what to make of that statement.
“I doubt that.” She tried to laugh the old woman’s words off.
“And did you bring him cake?”
Beth glanced down at the cake tin in her hands. Something she had whipped together first thing this morning.
“It’s a thank you for helping me with the gutters.” And an apology for last night.
“Hmm. Come inside. I have some samoosas and koesisters you can take to him.” She extinguished her cigarette in the ashtray on the bench beside her and got up with a little groan.
It wasn’t a request, it was a demand, and there was no denying Aunty Naz. She slowly shuffled her way to her front door, leaving Beth with no other option than to trail after the tiny old woman politely.
Beth followed her into the kitchen, which already smelled divine despite the relatively early hour. Probably a result of the koesisters—a traditional, delicious, Cape Malay dish of fried donut-like balls dipped in syrup and dusted with desiccated coconut—that Aunty Naz must have had made earlier.
Beth watched as the woman divided generous portions of the fried treats into two separate Tupperware dishes. She piled them on top of Beth’s cake tin.
“Don’t drop it,” Aunty Naz cautioned. She placed both hands on Beth’s shoulders and physically turned her to face the kitchen door, before releasing her and giving her a gentle nudge. “Now go. A man likes it when a woman brings him food.”