“No!” Miguel and I said together with matching tones of horror.
Sophie frowned. “What? I can cook.”
“Of course you can,” Miguel said. “But we’d miss you too much if you spent your evening in the kitchen.”
“Exactly,” I jumped in. “I mean I just got here.”
“All right then, Blanco Tacos and Tequila it is,” she announced.
I don’t think I was imagining the look of relief on her face. The truth is that Soph is not at one with the culinary arts even though she would like to be, and I imagined she wanted my first meal to be one that was actually edible.
Dinner was amazing. Shrimp fajitas to die for chased down by a margarita on the rocks with the salt on the rim just as the good lord intended. We reminisced a little, talked about their business, and autopsied the sad remains of my personal life. The consensus was that I needed to get back out there, but I was unconvinced.
It was early evening when we arrived at my new home. Judging by the size of the houses, we were in an exclusive neighborhood in the Biltmore area. This particular road was small and tucked away, camouflaged by enormous olive trees, which lined the quiet street. Miguel punched a code into the keypad in front of the massive wrought-iron gate, and with a lurch it slid open.
Instead of driving up the main driveway to the massive modern structure ahead of us, he took a narrow road that ran parallel to the main drive before veering off to the right. Tucked under a line of olive trees was a petite version of the big house. Small and square, it was a block of modern glass, steel, and concrete with wooden accents. I liked its austerity and the way the gray of the concrete blended with the silvery leaves of the olive trees that surrounded it.
When we climbed out of the car, there was a scuffle in the neatly trimmed oleanders beside us, and a pair of Gambel’s quail squawked and scurried deeper into the bushes as if fleeing certain death. They seemed comically overwrought, which made me laugh. I didn’t get this sort of wildlife in the center of Boston, so this was definitely a check in the plus column for Phoenix.
I glanced up at the trees, wondering what else was waiting to be discovered, but my attention was diverted by the sky. I moved away from the overhanging branches to see it better. The sunset over the city was a spectacular swath of deep burnt orange streaks and dusty splashes of purple. I stopped to stare at it, and Sophie noticed my rapt expression.
“Arizona has the best sunsets in the world,” she said.
“It makes me want to paint again.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to her or myself because I was preoccupied with the itch in my fingers, a feeling I hadn’t had in years, that used to mean I was eager to get to a canvas and play with colors.
“Excellent,” Sophie said. “You’re a brilliant artist. It’s past time for you to get back in the game.”
I turned my head and grinned at her. I felt lighter, as if by coming here and starting over, I’d buried my troubles in a snowbank in Boston and left them there.
Miguel unloaded my bags out of the back of the SUV and hauled them up the wide concrete steps to the front entrance of my house. It had thick glass double doors done in a swirled pattern that made them opaque. Gorgeous. They were bookended by two square bronze metal planters that were overflowing with trailing asparagus ferns and spiky lavender stalks. Miguel turned and handed me the keys to the house.
“I’m going up to the main house to let Daire know you’ve arrived,” he said.
“Shouldn’t I come with you?” I asked.
He and Sophie exchanged a look. Then he shook his head. “Nick Daire is a bit reclusive. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually, but I’d wait for him to take the lead on that.”
He walked down the steps and took a side path that cut through the olive trees and led to the front of the main house. I watched, taking in the very large house that perched behind my baby house like a mama hen hovering over its chick.
I turned to Sophie. “So what’s wrong with him?”
“Miguel? Nothing!”
I frowned. Why would she think I was asking about Miguel?
“No, Mr. Daire,” I said. “What’s wrong with him? Because reclusive seems like code for weird, odd, or possibly pervy.”
She took the keys from my hand and unlocked the glass doors.
“Belly, I am shocked. Shocked that you think I would put you up with a pervert,” she said.
“Just sayin’,” I said. “Spill it. What’s his damage?”
Sophie opened her mouth and then closed it. She looked me right in the eye and said, “Listen, I think it’s best if you just steer clear of the main house. Nick Daire is fine, seriously, but you don’t need to meet him, befriend him, or know him in any way other than to send him your rent check on the first of every month, okay?”
“Do you even know me?” I asked. I pointed to myself. “Extrovert. I like people. I like to be friendly.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “And since I do know you better than most people do, for once, listen to me. Steer clear of your landlord and all will be well.”
Clearly, she did not know me as well as she thought she did if that was her idea of keeping me away from my mysterious landlord. Now I was irrationally curious to meet him.
She turned on her heel and led the way into the small house. I was about to continue my interrogation, but I caught sight of the interior and completely forgot about my new landlord, the fact that I was exhausted, or that I needed to call home and check in.
The place was perfection. The glass front doors opened up into a large living room that had two squared-off couches in a pale blue-gray with black and white accent pillows, and a large-screen television was over the glass-enclosed gas fireplace. I could absolutely picture myself under a chenille throw with the fire blazing, a glass of wine in one hand, and a book in the other.
A door on the right led to a compact kitchen with granite counters, stainless steel appliances, and a matching sink deep enough to bathe a golden retriever. I wasn’t much of a cook, but this setup would certainly do.
The far wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, which bracketed a set of French doors that led out to a divine patio. The wall of windows let in the natural light, which came from the north, making it perfect for painting. I took it as another sign that it might be time to revisit the fine arts. I crossed the room and gasped as I took in the stunning backyard full of lemon and lime trees, which circled an in-ground azure pool and hot tub. Both of which looked so inviting, I almost grabbed my swimsuit and forgot all about unpacking.
Beyond the pool was the backside of the mansion I had glimpsed. Like my little house, it was very modern with loads of glass and squared edges framed in steel and concrete. I wondered if the interior was decorated the same, because the one thing I noticed about my little house was the lack of art or color of any kind. The walls were painted a soft creamy white but were completely devoid of any pictures. At all. There wasn’t even any cheap motel art on the walls. It felt barren and bereft. Where was the art?