Page 19 of Graciously His

“Does that mean he’s not allowed in the house?”

“Sometimes he comes inside,” Nate carries me past the dwarf trees, “when he’s been a good boy. I don’t consider ambushing you in the car to be good behaviour.”

It’s too dark to see much of the house, though I can tell that it’s sleek and new, which corresponds to what I’d pictured when Nate gave us vague descriptions of the place he was building several years back. I make out weatherboard walls stained a dark brown and vast, shining windows. As we reach the front door, I realise that the house sprawls inwards, its structure embracing us. I strain in Nate’s arms, trying to ascertain more details even as he pushes the front door open.

“Hang on, I want to see this place properly—and I want Shep back.”

“The lug will be back later.” Nate carries me into a big foyer with an open closet, a tasteful shoe rack, and a pair of arched doorways leading further into the house. The walls are a subdued white, the ceiling high and sloping. “Shep’s got an electronic doggy door in the kitchen, so don’t worry about him.”

Nate sets me down and I stare around, a vague sense of recognition permeating from the outside in. Through one doorway, there’s a long, curving corridor; through the other, a huge living room sprawls towards a massive stone fireplace. Craning my neck, I see yet another room further on, the house’s curving design hiding it.

A shiver runs down my back. I know this design.

“This—this is your house?”

“Ours,” he corrects, toeing off his shoes. “Shoes off in our house, little heart.”

My unease deepens. Before I can comply, he bends down to ease off my sneakers. He sets them beside his leather casuals, then holds out a hand for me to take. I step back instead. The long sleep in the car has cleared my head enough that I’m starting to question what I could only sense before. This entire situation is strange, if not outright wrong.

“Nate, is this… I feel like I know this place.”

I move past him into the living room. He follows without comment, allowing me to look around. Tall windows line the curve of the outer wall, and I note that the central panes are foldable doors that would effortlessly invite the outside in. Stepping past a pair of charcoal grey couches, I try to peer outside. It’s too dark to see, but I hear the faint sound of the ocean—close by, and certainly not a recording like the one in the car. I follow the windows towards the fireplace, peering through to a much smaller room on the other side.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, the design coming together with computer-generated lines of my own making. I’ve seen it all. I sketched it all, years ago, as the first stage in reclaiming my studies.

“So, tell me,” Nate nudges my shoulder, “what’s it like to see the house you pictured yourself living in but never built? The accordioning hallways are all here. Just for you.”

His words echo the email I sent him that morning.

I can’t speak. There’s a heaviness in my chest as the house unfolds around me, first in my mind, then in reality. I go to the far side of the fireplace, where a long corridor unspools down a scrolling line; it’s exactly what I created, the library tucked away behind the living room, visible through the shared fireplace. I know I’ll find the dining room next to the library, and the kitchen adjacent to that, leading to the sprawling garage at the very tip of this side of Horseshoe Manor. I glance down, seeing that Nate chose wide hardwood flooring, stained a similar brown to the exterior walls. The library is nearly empty, though there’s a reading nook built alongside the wide window. By day, it’ll be a sun-soaked spot to relax.

“I chose European oak for the floor and left most of the walls cream to keep the decor minimal.” Nate waves a hand at the empty shelves and the serviceable furniture. “Except the master bedroom, it’s what you’d call ‘warm brutalism.’ As close to a blank canvas as possible—for you.”

Old email threads unfurl in my mind as I follow the volution of the corridor, remembering how Nate fished for information on my preferred decorating style. His choices here reflect the truth: despite my love of architecture, my preferences for interiors aren’t all that well developed. Mother’s house is a mix of 90s maximalism and art deco. Her style bled through the walls when she and Nick started shopping together. Meanwhile, I sometimes smuggled in second-hand treasures from the local shops, when I was well enough to explore on my own. A turn-of-the-century rocker from England. A miniature set of rosewood drawers from South Africa. And my favourite: an absinthe-green florist’s table from 1920s France.

The kitchen is all stainless steel appliances and warm granite countertops. So far, it’s the one room I dislike—from the too-wide island in the centre, to the ill-positioned breakfast bar cutting off the flow to the side. The doggy door Nate mentioned is there, a fancy automatic slider next to a pair of French doors, and I hope to see Shep come inside soon.

Moving further into the kitchen, I spot a powder room next to the pantry that wasn’t in my original design. I step inside without a word, shutting the door and grabbing the edge of the sink with both hands. I try to breathe myself back to calm.

“You’re fine,” I tell the woman in the bathroom mirror. “Everything is going to be…”

I can’t finish the sentence. This is not fine. Most assuredly not. I need to find my footing right here and now, and manage the situation. Starting with demanding answers to the questions burning in my mind.

Heading back into the kitchen, I seat myself on one of the stools at the island and meet Nate’s eyes. “I think we’d better talk about this.”

Nate doesn’t take the seat beside me. Instead, he turns my stool and he leans in close, smiling in a way I can’t place. “Let me show you the rest of the house first.”

“No.” I lean back, trying to gain some distance. “You’re going to answer my questions. Why didn’t you tell us you’d built this place—why didn’t Nick tell me?”

“The deception was on your end, Grace, not mine.” He shrugs. “Had you shared your architectural designs with Nick, he’d have recognised this place when he visited.”

I’m too deep into suspicion to feel anything else right now, though I know grief is just around the corner, alongside the inevitable pain. I force it away as I ask my next set of questions.

“Why didn’t you just tell me about this house?”

“I did,” he steps even closer, his day-old stubble scraping against my cheek. “In every email, I told you I had things to show you. Here they are.” He draws back to wave at our surroundings, at the overstuffed kitchen, at the horseshoe-shaped house beyond. “The house you’ve always wanted—and the husband you’ve always needed.”

It takes me a moment to understand.