“No Ferrari
today,” she said. “Hello, Rory.”
“I traded it in on something a little more me.”
“The Ferrari was you.” She studied the 1965 Chev truck parked
at the curb, and said, “That’s you, too. Ah, a man of many faces.”
She meant it lightly, but he didn’t take it that way. He was a man of many faces, and some of them would
probably terrify her. That would be a good thing for her to remember. That he
was not always what he seemed.
She took the flowers with such genuine delight that he was glad
he’d brought them after all.
“Daffodils in July!” she said. “Imagine that! Come in.”
The house, too, was completely changed and he felt some stress
he had been holding leave him.
“You’ve fixed this up,” he said.
“I love my house. I’m afraid my idea of a good time is hanging
out at the hardware store mooning over engineered flooring and cabinet
pulls.”
So, it was exactly as he had guessed. She wanted to pass
herself off as a career woman, but she was pretty solidly invested in the whole
concept of home.
And she had it so right. The living room he was looking at was
a relaxed space, but everything from the furniture choices to the paint colors
invited you to feel at home, to relax, to sit and maybe to stay for a long, long
time. There was even a teddy bear nestled among the couch cushions that didn’t
look the least ridiculous. It added to the cozy feeling of just coming home.
There was a feeling here of safety.
He frowned at that. He felt safe. Why wouldn’t he feel safe? He
wasn’t in the land of blood and sand and tears anymore. And he was never going
back there.
Though, standing in her living room, he was acutely aware maybe
he had not totally ever left that land.
Because a place like this—cozy, inviting—was foreign to him.
The whole concept of home was foreign to him. His own houses growing up had
always been temporary. Sooner than later, his family would be moving all their
broken furniture and chipped dishes. No nice touches like those yellow-shaded
lamps or the Finnish rug on the floor.
And his place now?
A showpiece of modern design. All black leather, steel, shiny
surfaces, hard angles. It had a temporary feel to it. And it was temporary. He bought real estate as an investment.
He did not attach to it.
He had not known he wanted “homey” until he saw this.
“Come through to the kitchen,” she said. “I’m peeling spuds. I
thought Tucker might like homemade fries. I hope you don’t mind. The menu is
pretty kid-friendly tonight. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.”
“Mind? That’s a menu out of every man’s dream.”
That earned a smile, and then she led him to the kitchen, which
also reflected more changes to the footprint of the old house. A wall had been
dispensed with, the kitchen, dining room and living room were all seamless, one
harmonious space.
She set him down on a stool at a granite countertop island that
gave a hint of separation between the kitchen and the other spaces.
He picked up a knife and tackled a heap of potatoes while she
ripped lettuce into bite-size portions for a salad.
He was aware of feeling at home here. Not just the setting. But
with her.
He pursued that sense of safety. Music was playing softly in
the background. A cat wound around the leg of his chair. Everything was in
order, but not in an uptight way. This was a space where a person could relax.
Where there would rarely be a raised voice. Or the sound of dishes breaking in
anger. And maybe that, alone, made it one of the most dangerous places he had
ever been.
* * *
Rory Adams was in her space. He put down the knife after
cutting the potatoes into fries. He was looking as at home here as if he had
been born to this space.
She glanced at the clock.
“They’re late,” she said.
“The thing about a girl like Serenity?”
Grace truly hated it that he was such a self-proclaimed expert
on girls like Serenity, but she managed to bite her tongue.
today,” she said. “Hello, Rory.”
“I traded it in on something a little more me.”
“The Ferrari was you.” She studied the 1965 Chev truck parked
at the curb, and said, “That’s you, too. Ah, a man of many faces.”
She meant it lightly, but he didn’t take it that way. He was a man of many faces, and some of them would
probably terrify her. That would be a good thing for her to remember. That he
was not always what he seemed.
She took the flowers with such genuine delight that he was glad
he’d brought them after all.
“Daffodils in July!” she said. “Imagine that! Come in.”
The house, too, was completely changed and he felt some stress
he had been holding leave him.
“You’ve fixed this up,” he said.
“I love my house. I’m afraid my idea of a good time is hanging
out at the hardware store mooning over engineered flooring and cabinet
pulls.”
So, it was exactly as he had guessed. She wanted to pass
herself off as a career woman, but she was pretty solidly invested in the whole
concept of home.
And she had it so right. The living room he was looking at was
a relaxed space, but everything from the furniture choices to the paint colors
invited you to feel at home, to relax, to sit and maybe to stay for a long, long
time. There was even a teddy bear nestled among the couch cushions that didn’t
look the least ridiculous. It added to the cozy feeling of just coming home.
There was a feeling here of safety.
He frowned at that. He felt safe. Why wouldn’t he feel safe? He
wasn’t in the land of blood and sand and tears anymore. And he was never going
back there.
Though, standing in her living room, he was acutely aware maybe
he had not totally ever left that land.
Because a place like this—cozy, inviting—was foreign to him.
The whole concept of home was foreign to him. His own houses growing up had
always been temporary. Sooner than later, his family would be moving all their
broken furniture and chipped dishes. No nice touches like those yellow-shaded
lamps or the Finnish rug on the floor.
And his place now?
A showpiece of modern design. All black leather, steel, shiny
surfaces, hard angles. It had a temporary feel to it. And it was temporary. He bought real estate as an investment.
He did not attach to it.
He had not known he wanted “homey” until he saw this.
“Come through to the kitchen,” she said. “I’m peeling spuds. I
thought Tucker might like homemade fries. I hope you don’t mind. The menu is
pretty kid-friendly tonight. Burgers. Fries. Milkshakes.”
“Mind? That’s a menu out of every man’s dream.”
That earned a smile, and then she led him to the kitchen, which
also reflected more changes to the footprint of the old house. A wall had been
dispensed with, the kitchen, dining room and living room were all seamless, one
harmonious space.
She set him down on a stool at a granite countertop island that
gave a hint of separation between the kitchen and the other spaces.
He picked up a knife and tackled a heap of potatoes while she
ripped lettuce into bite-size portions for a salad.
He was aware of feeling at home here. Not just the setting. But
with her.
He pursued that sense of safety. Music was playing softly in
the background. A cat wound around the leg of his chair. Everything was in
order, but not in an uptight way. This was a space where a person could relax.
Where there would rarely be a raised voice. Or the sound of dishes breaking in
anger. And maybe that, alone, made it one of the most dangerous places he had
ever been.
* * *
Rory Adams was in her space. He put down the knife after
cutting the potatoes into fries. He was looking as at home here as if he had
been born to this space.
She glanced at the clock.
“They’re late,” she said.
“The thing about a girl like Serenity?”
Grace truly hated it that he was such a self-proclaimed expert
on girls like Serenity, but she managed to bite her tongue.
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