Chapter Text
There was a postcard on the refrigerator door. James looked at it every morning, and a staircase drowning in gold stared back. To five-year-old James, the trees surrounding it looked like skyscrapers. They were coloured with lilac flowers and their branches nearly reached the church that stood at the top.
“You see, James,” Fleamont always said, “they call them the Spanish Steps because that’s where the Spanish Embassy to the Holy See has been since 1641. But don’t ever forget its real name, the one saved only for us – Scalinata di Trinità dei Monti.”
“Monty,” James always giggled.
“Yes, love. Monty. Just like your old man. Just like the name you carry with you.”
James was seven when he finally learned to pronounce it right.
“What’s so special about the staircase?” James asked.
The postcard had faded, but it still shimmered in the dark. Fleamont smiled.
“That’s where your mother and I met.”
James was sixteen when the postcard came to life. He got to watch his parents walk along it, hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings until they reached the church.
The three of them looked at Rome from above. It was the closest James had ever gotten to floating on a cloud.
“One day, when you’re married and have kids of your own, you’ll know,” Euphemia said. “You’ll bring them here, and you’ll stand here, at the top of this staircase embedded in gold, and you’ll know what it’s like to love someone like it’s breathing.”
James didn’t need the stairs for that. The second his son was born, he knew.
After Harry turned one, James could no longer give him a mother. But he could always give Harry memories. He could always remind Harry how much easier it was to breathe when life felt like a postcard.
***
In 1994, a tunnel was built between England and France.
One summer morning in June 1996, James woke up, left the coffee dripping, and walked into the garden that embraced his family’s cottage. His mother turned around and smiled, a round basket with daisies in her arm.
“Good morning, love,” Euphemia smiled and kissed James’s cheek gently. “How’d you sleep? How was the bed?”
“Perfectly adequate,” James smiled back. “The Tigger sheets were the cherry on top.”
“Remember when you refused to go to sleep without them?”
“I do. Painfully well,” James chuckled. “Do you need any help?”
“Oh no, darling. Thank you. These are just to set the table for breakfast. It’s been far too long since you and Harry have been here.”
“It really has.”
Euphemia looked at the daisies and smiled. To James, she had been the bravest person on Earth since he’d first seen her kill a spider, but even she couldn’t hide the insecurity that came with a teenage grandson.
“I just want to make him happy,” Euphemia whispered to the daisies.
James took a step forward and wrapped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “You do, Mum. He’s at an age where he no longer runs around the garden chasing butterflies, and yet, he still adores you just as much.”
Euphemia gave him a warm smile.
“Besides. I’m still the one dragging him out of bed at nine with his pillow in hand and his hair defying gravity. I am the villain in his story. Not you.”
“Like father, like son.”
Euphemia had a hint of mischief on her lips, but James’s heart still twisted at her words.
“Where’s Papa?” he asked. He rubbed his chest, hoping it would make breathing a little easier.
There was still so much Harry hadn’t seen. He had walked in the garden and he had heard the birds, but he hadn’t seen the map.
Euphemia crouched down to pull out a stick that was poking her rose bush. “He took the RV out. You know how he is. He said he’ll get some kind of an emergency kit together so you won’t run into trouble on the road.”
“I have driven it before, you know.”
“I know, darling, but that thing is four decades old. And you’re the one who refused to upgrade it.”
James groaned. “We really don’t need anything fancy. We’ll have the RV working just fine and dandy, and we’ll have our map. That’s all you, me and Papa had too.”
Euphemia nodded. James could see the haze of memories on her lips. “I hope Harry’s better at reading the map than you were at his age.”
James laughed, basking in the same haze.
“What did he say when you first told him?” Euphemia asked.
James rubbed his neck.
“Oh, dear,” Euphemia said, tilting her head. “You haven’t told him yet.”
“Not— exactly.”
“James.”
“I know, I know. I will.”
“When?”
“When he’s in a better mood,” James said with an exhale. It didn’t help. His chest still felt tight. “He barely spoke to me the whole drive here. He put on his music and stared out of the window. He preferred listening to the same cassette a hundred times over talking to me.”
“Maybe Harry’s just nervous,” Euphemia said gently. “Of course he’s scared about spending an entire month away from his friends, be it here at the cottage or on the road. I’m sure he just needs some space. Even if he hates the idea at first.”
“That’s the thing,” James whispered. “What if he hates going on this trip more than I can handle?”
Euphemia’s eyes softened. Each time James was sure her mother’s eyes couldn’t be any kinder, Euphemia found a way to surprise him. She knew James needed her now more than ever before.
“Trust me, James. He misses being close to you just as much as you do. And it just might take a month on the road to fix that.”
James nodded, his gaze on the grass that tickled his ankles.
“Besides. All roads lead to Rome, remember?” Euphemia said, a grin playing on her lips. “Especially all the roads that we share with our sons.”
James laughed. “Yeah,” he said with a tiny smile. “I guess they do.”
Euphemia squeezed James’s arm gently. “Don’t forget, love. As long as there’s time, there’s hope. Right?”
“Right,” James said with a soft breath.
“Speaking of the devil,” Euphemia said, her gaze fixed on something behind James. “Looks like your father has dragged Harry out of bed.”
James turned around. He saw Harry’s back through the kitchen window, his hair a mess of stubborn curls everywhere, his T-shirt far too big for his shoulders.
“Let’s join them, shall we?” Euphemia asked. “Let me help you tell him. He’ll understand.”
James nodded. He trusted his mother more than he trusted the gnawing in his chest.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Euphemia said as they walked into the kitchen. She kissed Harry’s forehead gently, and Harry didn’t flinch. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice hoarse from sleep. “Can I grab some coffee?”
“Of course, dear. Grab whatever you want. We’ve got three kinds of cereal for you, too. I couldn’t remember which one’s your favourite. Cornflakes? Or perhaps the ones that are all sugar and no fibre?”
“Cornflakes are fine.”
Euphemia nodded and turned to reach for the bowls, but Harry beat him to it.
“Thanks, Grandma. I got it,” Harry smiled.
“All right then. Let me just grab some milk for you. Full-fat? Skimmed? Half-and-half?”
“You’re smothering him, dear,” Fleamont said from behind the newspaper.
“Can you blame me? He’s my only grandson.”
Euphemia smiled at Harry as he sat down. She laid all three cartons of milk in front of him, and Harry grabbed the one closest to him.
James sat down next to Harry and twirled his spoon in his coffee. Half of the polite conversation between his parents and his son flew right past him.
“You should come to the greenhouses more often, dear,” Euphemia said to Harry who was halfway down his cereal. “Your grandpa’s sunflowers are in full bloom. Summer’s beautiful up there. All colours and soft edges.”
“I’d like that,” Harry said for the first time in years. “It is pretty cool that your flowers bloom throughout the year.”
There was an unmistakable echo of pride in his voice. It made James smile.
“Do you have any summer-long projects here?” Harry asked.
“We most definitely do,” Fleamont said. “We study the ecosystem of the lake too. Lots of blue-green algae this year. It’s important to keep an eye on it for the environment’s sake.”
“It’s not really a type of algae, right? It’s a bacteria,” Harry said.
“Indeed,” Fleamont said with a proud smile. “So you like science, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s brilliant. You are brilliant, Harry. I hope you know that.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” Harry said quietly. James ruffled his hair, hoping it gave Harry the confidence boost he needed. Harry put his curls back into place.
“There’s a lot that Grandma and I can teach you,” Fleamont continued. “And your dad can teach you all about the maths it takes to run a few greenhouses.”
Harry grunted. “God, no. He’d need a lot more than a month in the countryside to get me excited about maths.”
Silence fell between them.
“Actually,” Euphemia said gently, “there’s something we wanted to talk to you about, dear.”
Harry frowned. He looked at James who did his best to keep his smile steady. Euphemia did it a lot better.
“You know when your father was sixteen, we took him on a trip around Western Europe, right?” she asked.
Harry nodded slowly.
“We took the ferry from Dover to France, the RV safely with us. After that, we drove to Lyons-la-Forêt, then through the countryside to Lyon and Marseille, and we kept moving forward until we reached Rome.”
Harry nodded again. He was squinting.
“So, we were thinking that maybe you’d like to go on that trip too. This summer,” Euphemia said carefully. “I know your father has talked about it for years and, well, it’s been twenty years since our trip this year, and you’ll turn sixteen in July. So. What do you think?”
“How many weeks?” Harry asked.
“A month, give or take,” Euphemia said.
“A month of me and Dad driving an RV through France?”
James could no longer discern Harry’s tone. Most of him didn’t want to. Euphemia kept her control and nodded, her eyes still gentle as ever.
“Harry, I know it’s not the summer you planned,” James said. He felt like he was tip-toeing around a bomb that could explode at any second.
“No. No, it wasn’t,” Harry said. His voice was slowly thickening. “The summer I planned was concerts and movies and coming back home at 2 am. Then, when you told me that wasn’t happening, the summer I planned was spending a month at my grandparents’ cottage swimming in the lake and growing plants. And now it was all for nothing and you’re throwing this in my face at the last minute?”
“No, Harry, that’s not—“
“I’m not doing this,” Harry said and got up so quickly he hit his hips against the table. “I hate the RV. It’s cold and noisy and you know damn well it’s going to break down at some point and leave us stranded in the middle of nowhere. I don’t want that. I want to do what I want for once.”
“Harry—“
Harry walked away. James buried his face in his hands and stayed still until he felt his mother’s hand on his arm.
“I can’t do this,” James whispered, breaking the silence. “I can’t force him to go with me. He’ll hate me for doing that to him and won’t speak to me and we’ll sit in the RV staring at nothing until I break down and turn it around and…”
“Love.”
“He’ll hate me.”
Euphemia stroked James’s hair gently. He felt like he was a child again.
“His mother was always supposed to come with you,” Euphemia whispered. “It makes it all so much worse. All the hurt and the grief. There’s so much pain there that you can’t help him with.”
“I just want him to let me try,” James whispered.
“I know. But he needs time to understand that your trip won’t be a constant reminder of her absence. It’s a celebration of her love for the both of you and how she wants you to always stick together.”
“But Harry doesn’t want that,” James whispered, his voice hoarse.
“He does. Underneath all that regret, he needs you. Even when he makes it difficult because it feels like he’s shoving you away. He still needs to be held close to you.”
James shook his head and sniffled. The world looked a lot dimmer through his hands, and for once it felt like he preferred it that way.
“I’ll talk to him, love. Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.” She kissed James’s forehead. “Trust me. This is one of those things that grandmothers know best.”
James smiled, knowing no one could tell the difference better than his mother.