The O'Briens by Peter Behrens Page B

dressed at least.
    She opened the door, smiling. “Mr. O’Brien, what a nice surprise! Won’t you come in?”
    In one hand he held a bunch of irises wrapped in a sheet of newspaper, in his other hand a wrapped parcel. He thrust the flowers at her.
    â€œHow kind! I’ve so enjoyed your roses. Please come in.” She took the flowers into the kitchen and started clipping the stems. She didn’t have a vase so she filled a glass with water and brought the flowers out.
    He wore his blue suit, a striped shirt, another stiff white collar, and a maroon necktie, and he looked handsome, dark, and strong.
    â€œA present for the house.” He held out the parcel.
    â€œReally, this is too much, Mr. O’Brien.”
    â€œHardly. Open it.”
    She pulled away the wrapping. It was a big quarto-sized volume: Interior Arrangement and Furnishing of the California Bungalow . Kneeling on the floor, she opened the book and slowly turned pages. There were photographs and floor plans, drawings of chairs, lamps, and furnishings.
    â€œOh, this is quite thrilling! How thoughtful of you.”
    â€œI thought you might find something in it.”
    She saw him glance at her nest of blankets on the floor. “I don’t have a real bed yet,” she said quickly. “Or chairs or a table. So your book will be my guide.”
    â€œThere may be one or two ideas there you can use. Maybe I’d better come back some other time, when you’ve had a chance to settle in?”
    â€œI have tea and sugar and milk. I think we’ll manage.”
    He followed her into the narrow little kitchen and she felt him watching her while she lit the stove and got out her mother’s tea things.
    â€œAre you finding room to breathe?” he asked.
    She looked around at him and smiled. “Will this white fog ever lift, Mr. O’Brien?”
    â€œOh, it won’t last. By the way, you can order firewood at the feed and grain on Washington Boulevard. A fire would cheer things up.”
    He carried the tea tray to the living room. She had failed herself so far, but having another body in the cottage was reassuring. His masculine voice and scent relieved the pressure of the emptiness.
    â€œWe’ll sit on the floor,” she said, “if that’s all right.”
    â€œOf course it is.”
    His body gave the room dimension. The emptiness no longer seemed monstrous. He poured tea while she opened the book and examined the photographs, elevations, and room plans. Each house, each room, every piece of furniture had clean horizontal lines.
    â€œSome of our friends in Pasadena lived in these sorts of cottages. They were called cottages, but they were quite grand houses.” She slowly turned pages. “My mother didn’t like them but I thought they were beautiful.”
    â€œThat is the sort I would want to build, with plenty of space. Room to breathe. Is your furniture being shipped from the East?”
    â€œNo, no. I will have new things.”
    â€œThere’s a fellow in Santa Monica, a furniture maker — he will build anything you like so long as it’s modern. He carved a propeller for Grattan.”
    â€œA propeller?”
    â€œGrattan owns a share of a flying machine. He’s always trying something new. The propeller represents most of his equity, I believe. She originally had a four-blade metal propeller, but when they were replacing the engine, they decided that a two-blade wooden propeller was the best match. It’s lighter than the metal one.”
    â€œAre you an aviator?”
    â€œNo. I’ve been up a few times with my brother. I used to fly in my dreams, but it isn’t really much like it is in dreams. The motor’s noisy, and the wind. They have to watch the rudder and the trim. She takes a fair bit of muscle to fly.”
    â€œAren’t you afraid of crashing?”
    â€œThey’ve had a couple of crack-ups, nothing they