He knocked. Immediately, he heard answering footsteps within. As the door swung open, he tried to brace himself for the sight of her.
It didn’t do any good. The power of her appearance hit him hard in the chest. She was color and life and warmth.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He figured remaining silent was better than saying, “I’m not glad I came.”
“Come in.”
He entered her house just as a pug came to a stop at her feet.
Great. More pugs.
“Right this way.” Her clogs thumped against the hardwood floor as she walked past an office, stairs, and a bathroom tucked under the staircase.
She wore a loose white tank top and leggings beneath a silky robe-thing in a blue print. The robe-thing was open down the middle and ended near her knees. He guessed it wasn’t a robe since she was wearing it for dinner over clothes. Still, it seemed weird. She had on two necklaces—a short one and a long one that dangled a metal feather. Her black hair was down tonight and slightly wavy. She and her house smelled like orange blossoms.
He followed her to the living room, dining room, kitchen space at the back of the house that overlooked a rectangular deck.
She picked up a spoon and stirred one of the pots on the stove. “This is Sally.” She motioned with her elbow toward the dog. “And there’s my cat, Rufus.” A scraggly cat with one ripped ear curled on a living room chair. He eyed Luke suspiciously. “He’s anti-social. I have a hedgehog named Dudley, who’s currently napping in his cage in the office. And I have Gloria here.” She indicated the fishbowl on the half-wall separating the dining room from the kitchen. “She’s a Siamese fighting fish.”
“I’m not easily scandalized,” she’d said to him on Friday. She had no idea what she was talking about, living out here in her little house in the woods with her pets, listening to soundtracks of wind chimes, eating tofu, and viewing herself as worldly.
“Are your pets all rescues?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took a sample bite from the pot, then added seasoning. “Sally was grossly overfed by her first owner. Rufus and Dudley came to me back in the days when Furry Tails was taking in all types of animals. Rufus was feral and brought to the vet half dead. Dudley was abandoned in the middle of Misty River’s central park. I received Gloria from a vendor running a ring tossgame at the Apple Festival.” Her lips pursed as she twisted the salt grinder aggressively. “I do not approve of giving animals away as prizes or gifts. After several volunteers and I organized a sit-in protest, the ring toss vendor agreed to sell the fish to us.”
He really hoped she wasn’t going to spend the whole meal ranting about the treatment of animals. He wanted to cut to the chase and demand, “Show me the first clue,” but he held the words back.
For a long time he’d been caged apart from society. On the outside, guys who’d been raised on the streets were low in the social hierarchy. But inside, the hierarchy was flipped. Those guys were the kings. To survive, Luke had learned their ways. In prison, every interaction was about respect. He’d become more self-controlled, cautious, and socially withdrawn. To his surprise, however, the manners his mom had taught him when he was a kid hadn’t been fully erased. They were rusty, but still there. “Do you need any help?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got this. I just need to chop up the last few ingredients for the salad. Would you like anything to drink?”
“Not yet.”
The bones of her house were neutral. Off-white paint and wood floors. But then she’d added bright rugs, throw pillows, and lots of other ... stuff. On the wall behind her sofa, a strand of lights glowed above some woven baskets and several pieces of modern art in dark pastel colors. Dozens of cacti filled a ladder-type thing set to the side of the sliding doors. Potted plants on tall stands took up every corner.
He neared a set of floating shelves. They held books. Folk art. Framed photos, many of her with Ed. Some of her with female friends. Some of animals.
He picked up a photo of her with a guy who wore his blond hair in a ponytail. “Who’s this?” He tilted the frame toward her.
She glanced up. “Oh.” Her features softened. “That’s Chase. My fiancé.”
Just like that, his gut hardened into a knot.
Her fiancé.
All-American and blond, Chase had a square jaw and blue eyes lighter than Finley’s blue eyes. He wore an olive-colored T-shirt and a leather necklace.
In the photo, Chase was embracing Finley, and they were laughing. Their love for each other was obvious. Clearly, they belonged together.
“We met and started dating the fall of our junior year at UGA. He was selfless. A musician. Loved the Lord. He went to seminary and became a youth pastor.”
Ah. She’d fallen in love with a saint. A perfect match—
“He died five years ago.”
He stilled, frowning. The fact that Chase had died so young was a tragedy. So why had her words loosened the knot in his gut?
