I drove to the bungalow without telling her where we were going.
When I pulled into the narrow driveway, the sun was dropping low over the ocean, throwing copper light across the renovated porch and the new windows. The house glowed like it knew she was coming.
Destiny sat up slowly.
“What is this?”
“A project.”
Her eyes moved over the house. Fresh white stucco. Blue-gray trim. Pots of rosemary by the steps. Warm porch light already on though the sky wasn’t dark yet.
“This is the project?”
“One of them.”
She turned toward me.
The look on her face told me she was already putting pieces together.
Too smart.
Always had been.
“Dylan.”
“Come inside.”
I got out before I could lose my nerve.
She followed more slowly, one hand gripping her bag strap.
I unlocked the front door and pushed it open.
Destiny stepped inside.
Then stopped.
The entry opened into a living room with restored wood floors, soft white walls, and arched passageways I had fought two subcontractors to keep. Late sunlight poured through the windows, catching dust motes in the air and turning them gold. The old fireplace had been cleaned and repaired. Built-in shelves framed it now, still empty except for a small turquoise vase I had bought because it made me think of the ring on her finger.
Destiny didn’t speak.
That made me nervous.
She walked forward, slow and silent, into the kitchen.
That was where she went still again.
Green tile backsplash.
Warm wood shelves.
Quartz counters.
Deep sink.
A window over it looking toward the messy little backyard I had cleaned, planted, and turned into something that might be beautiful if the basil survived long enough to see daylight twice.
Her fingers touched the edge of the counter.
