Cradling receiver ever closer, Jon nodded, this time remembering to pair his action with a tender, “Yes, ma'am,” appreciatively whispered through the pin holes.
Despite the turmoil solemnly faced far side of the world, Robb’s mother had spoken with such empathy the last little while he absolutely would not disrespect her kindness by neglecting words of wisdom. Marjatta could have turned him away, after all, lectured nosy lad on decency and the noble virtue of minding one’s own business, cited half a dozen reasons why his questions weren’t her’s to answer: It’s Robb’s story to tell or a tear-filled, incomplete I’m sorry, Jonnie lad, I- I just can’t... came immediately to preconditioned mind. On the whole, the Starks never discussed life’s sordid affairs. Preferred to stash skeleton and secret back of the large, cast iron vault sat foot of father’s stately wardrobe. A hex upon any who attempted to crack safe’s code with too many curiosities! But that wasn’t how the McLellan’s functioned, better times in family’s lives when talk was abundant and hurts aired as bedsheets in the summer breeze; doors thrown wide to freshen the scent of cedar and mothballs.
“I won’t fail him,” Jon promised, easily fulfilled for the all the love in his heart.
A quick glance then to top right of studio issued MacBook Air informed him of the hour. Much as it pained Jon to release Marjatta to her bath salts and good British comfort - for no balm existed quite so potent and healing in nature as that of a crackling fire on the coldest, dampest night - there was another McLellan in dire need of his affections.
“Should ring off here if I’m to beat the traffic. Are you sure you’re alright? I’d not mind ringing up again after checking on Robb, we could all three share a cuppa over Skype. Or maybe we could finally have that rematch?”
That brought much needed amusement to both parties, remembrance of ongoing, international web battle and Jon’s piss-poor Gin playing. For an Englishman, his performances were always quite embarrassing.