Say it.The words frequently ran through my mind. They were his last words to me the morning I’d left.Tell me you can forget,he’d demanded.Say it, Olivia! Say it, say it, say it . . .
An alert told me Bill had responded to my earlier text.
Bill:OK. Jury prob out for a few days, going to Oak Park house tomorrow if you want to come.
Me:Why?
Bill:Meeting that architect David there. I can pick you up.
I closed my eyes for a long moment as the information permeated my still fuzzy brain. Bill and David, alone together? It was almost enough to make me scream. I wanted to blame David, but it wasn’t his fault, so I blamed Bill, but it also wasn’t his fault. I was only left with myself. With unsteady fingers, I told Bill I’d go along. What choice did I have? I couldn’t forbid it, and I couldn’t not be there. The two of them alone, talking, laughing, sharing. The thought of not being able to monitor their conversation made me want to pull my hair out.
I groaned to myself and put the phone away, ignoring David’s last text.
9
Fidgeting with the collar of my purple silk blouse, I craned my neck to watch for Bill’s car. According to Bill, David was leaving for New York this evening, so our visit to the Oak Park house had to be now, in the middle of the workday. I didn’t know what to expect—or even if David knew I was coming.
Bill pulled up and screeched to a halt at the curb.
“We’re late,” I said as I got into the car. “Are we picking David up?”
“He’s meeting us there,” Bill said.
I worked my lower lip between my teeth in anxiety and excitement. Just before the wedding, I’d assumed I’d never see David again. And now this. I half-rolled my eyes out to the window.
“Look, whatever happens will be for the best,” Bill said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“With the house. If it’s too far gone, we’ll find something else.” He glanced over at me. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, looking back out the window. That didn’t even make it into the top three of my current concerns.
When we pulled up, David came into sight. With his back straight as a board and his shoulders taut, he spoke intently with an older, portly man. David gestured to the house, and when the man responded, he listened attentively, his arms crossed, and his thick eyebrows knit in concentration. The small glimpses I’d seen of David in architect mode were especially disarming—there was something arousing about watching him do what he loved.
David looked up then and gaited toward us with calm confidence. I couldn’t tell if he’d expected me because he was almost too collected. While I was near senseless with anxiety, his wide smile and sturdy handshake were signs that he was a schmoozer, a player, a charmer to the core.
“This place is a find,” he said.
“I know it’s not like the other houses,” I said, “but that’s why I like it.”
“It certainly isn’t, thank God for that,” he replied, looking down the street.
Bill grumbled under his breath as he stole a look at the house behind us, then extended his hand to the portly man. “You must be the appraiser.”
“I’ve already been around the yard and exterior,” the man said. “If you have the keys, I’ll just take a look inside.”
He followed Bill to the front door, leaving David and me behind. I glanced up at him from the corner of my eye and gave him a half-smile, to which he responded with a friendly wink.
“What do you really think about the house?” I asked.
“It definitely has an organic, fluid feel.”
“What do you mean by organic?”
“It works with nature, not against it. Rustic yet modern, a prairie-style home. You can tell by the horizontal lines and overhanging eaves. They’re reflective of a sweeping prairie,” he explained, gliding his hand through the air to demonstrate. “It’s a fairly popular style in Oak Park because of Frank Lloyd Wright’s influence—he designed several homes around here. You’re right that it does seem out of place on this street, but it’s not unusual for the area. I meant what I said—it’s a find.”
I followed him through the door into the front room, where his eyes went to the ceiling and worked their way down. “Open floor plan,” he observed. “My personal favorite. You could really do something unique with the interior.”
