“Come on through.”
Christ, it was hot in here. “No A/C?”
“In this old house?” She laughed. “No. Ceiling fans are about as good as it gets. I’m too stubborn for window units.”
“Stubborn?”
“No way I’m giving up beautiful, precious natural light in exchange for recycled air, no matter how cool it is. I’d rather be hot and watch the sky out my window.”
“Wow. A purist.”
“Or stupid. Whatever you want to call it.”
After a pause, during which she could feel him look around, taking in their surroundings, he said, “Nice place.”
“Thank you. It needs work, though.”
“Yeah, saw some of your clapboard needs replacing.”
“You haven’t seen the garden yet,” she said.
Oh, but I have, Clay thought as she went on. “I can hardly keep up. The fence is a mess, and the chickens had an unwanted visitor last week. I performed emergency surgery with chicken wire, and it’s ugly.”
Soft music flowed from the back of the house—some kind of girlie folk music, a little high, a little light and slow for his taste, but it suited the place. He followed George through an open hall, beside a nice-sized staircase. He’d seen some of it from outside, but he took it in with a new perspective: hardwood floors, high ceilings, paint that had seen better days, and colorful, threadbare rugs scattered here and there. The farmhouse was loved—he could see that—but it sure needed work. Bits of crown molding were missing, and floorboards whined beneath his feet. She led him back to a big kitchen that spanned the entire rear of the house.
He was shamed by the plates of food waiting for them on the scarred wooden table. He’d stood out there for at least half an hour, watching the house, waiting and debating, sick with doubt at what he was starting with this woman. Starting something he wouldn’t be around to finish.
“Sorry I made you wait.”
“No problem.” She glanced at him, caught his eye, and raised her brows in a way that said she knew more about what he’d been doing out there than she let on. “Beer or wine?”
“Beer, please.”
“It’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
He turned to the old-fashioned-looking appliance, pulled out a bottle of beer—a local brand; what was it with people around here and their locally made crap?—and twisted it open.
“You want one?” She shook her head, and he took a turn around the room, bypassing the open door leading to a big screened-in porch and ending up at the wide back window, which overlooked the yard, where green things fought for supremacy. “Cozy.”
“You think?”
He nodded, taking in the layers of stuff everywhere, so much like the plants out back in their cheerful disarray. Not like one of those hoarder houses, not suffocating. More artfully arranged. Flowers, tons of them, some in vases, some in pots; a couple of lamps, cool-looking marble with ornate, colorful shades; wooden chairs, worn like the rest of the place, with cushions on them—no two prints alike, but all somehow belonging together. A happy chaos.
“Have a seat,” she said, and he looked at his choices—two big armchairs by a wood stove or four wooden chairs flanking a big, scarred table by the window. He opted for the latter, pulling out one of the chairs and nearly screaming like a little girl at the animal who stared up at him, one-eyed and three-legged.
George laughed at his shocked, “Oh Jesus,” and moved to shoo away the cat, who wanted absolutely none of it.
“Go on, Leonard. We humans get to use the chairs now.”
The cat dropped to the floor with a thunk, only to return to his rightful spot a few seconds later, right up under Clay’s chin like he’d been the night before.
“Wow,” George said with a surprised frown. “Leonard’s a bit of a recluse usually. He doesn’t take to strangers quite so fast.”
Little do you know.
She walked to a counter, where she grabbed a dish and stuck it into the oven. “Brownies,” she said with a little smile, twisting a tomato-shaped timer and putting it on the table between them in a weird parody of some speed-dating ritual.
She sat across from him with a glass of white wine, and he could see, even in this golden, candlelit room, a rosy blush high on her cheeks.
