Rooms: A Novel by James L. Rubart

charge for a tour of the house or the story.”
    “Tuesday nights I have a standing date with twenty-three men and women who aren’t as mobile as they once were.”
    “Old folks home?”
    “Mature folks home. I read to them, laugh with them.” She paused. “Sometimes cry. It’s cliché to say, I know, but I get more out of it than they do.”
    Micah wondered if he should ask for another night, but Sarah saved him the trouble.
    “Thursday night is open, if your invitation is still on the table.”
    Her dark chocolate-colored eyes twinkled at him, and he assured her it was.
    As he rode home, he thought about Julie. Was there any hope for them? Did she care anymore? Did he?
    And what about this Sarah girl? He wasn’t ready for another relationship. Micah shifted his bike into a higher gear and bore down on the pedals.
    What was he worried about? It was just one dinner.

CHAPTER 13
    Thursday Micah woke early. He wanted the dinner to be perfect and gave himself the whole day to prepare. By the time the sun started its descent toward the sea, he was ready to entertain the mysterious Sarah Sabin.
    At 5:57 p.m. the doorbell echoed through the house like a wind chime. Micah glanced in the mirror, smoothed his hair with both hands, clipped toward the door, and opened it.
    “Hi, Micah.” Sarah smiled.
    Wow. Beautiful. Remember, pal, you’re not 100 percent sure things between you and Julie are over. Just friends with Sarah, okay? The hint of her perfume made him repeat the thought.
    “Hi, Sarah.” He tried not to stare. Radiant.
    “Can I come in?”
    “Oh, sorry.”
    After Sarah stepped inside, she drifted toward the picture windows. “Wow. That’s an amazing view.” She gazed slowly around the great room. “I love this place already. You inherited it from your uncle?”
    “Great-uncle.”
    He took her coat and went back to the entryway closet to hang it up. He’d never opened it. The pegs by the front door had worked fine. His eyes narrowed. A stack of letters sat on the shelf, up against the right edge of the closet wall. He pulled them down. They were tied together with twine, and the edges of the envelopes went from yellow at the top to slightly faded on the bottom. The return name and address on the top envelope were Archie’s, but the letter was mailed to a Christopher Hale. In smaller print at the bottom was “Attention: Micah Taylor.”
    His head spun. He riffled through the first five or six envelopes. Same mailing address, same return address. He drew in a sharp, shallow breath. Would these letters answer the house questions ricocheting through his head? They had to. Finally!
    “Micah?”
    Sarah’s voice broke through the world he’d fallen into, and he pulled away from the door.
    “I’m sorry, it’s just that I found, well . . .” he trailed off, not knowing what or how much he wanted to say.
    She graciously moved away from him, toward his picture windows. “You never knew him?”
    “Who?” Micah was still returning to the present. He set the letters back on the shelf, then closed the door.
    “This great-uncle of yours.”
    “No. Even my dad doesn’t know much about him.” Micah paused. “Or won’t say.”
    Sarah meandered over to the built-in shelves packed with hundreds of books on history, photography, art, fiction, and biographies, and tilted her head, probably to read the titles.
    “You a book lover?” Micah asked.
    She gave a slight nod. “If you gave me five thousand dollars to spend in any store, I’d head straight for Barnes & Noble.”
    “Are you asking for my checkbook?”
    Sarah glanced at him and laughed, then looked back at the books.
    Micah moved into the kitchen, noticed a coffee stain on the counter, and licked his thumb. Sarah came over as he got the last of it off the granite.
    “Nice clean-up method.”
    “You don’t miss much, do you?” Micah looked up, his face warm.
    “Sorry. I could be a little more tactful.” She sat on a maple stool next to the