Chapter Twenty-Two
Twenty-two
We don’t drop it there. We’re involved, and we want to stay involved. But it’s hard to argue when a woman is dead and Mercy is grieving. In light of that, insisting on helping feels more like interfering.
Connolly and I have left them to it and walked three blocks, getting to a better area for calling a ride share.
“I’ll take you home,” Connolly says.
“In a ride-share?”
“No, a car service. That will be more comfortable.”
“I’m not arguing comfort, Aiden. I’m saying I don’t think we need a hired car just yet. Your car is here, right? In Boston? It’s the rental that’s back at my place. We can figure out how to get me home later. I’d rather rest first. Take time to clear my head.”
“Yes, of course.”
He looks up and down the street, as if a sofa might magically appear.
“Your condo is in Boston, right?”
“Er, yes . . .”
Okay, let’s be honest. While I wouldn’t mind a rest, I’m really angling for a chance to see where he lives. We’ve been in Boston together many times, but never to his condo, and I’ve presumed that’s just him being careful not to send the wrong message. Now, as he hesitates, I realize there’s more to it. His place is his personal space, and I’d be barging into it to satisfy pure curiosity.
“How about a coffee?” I say. “Your caffeine meter must be running low by now. Let’s find a quiet place and chill for an hour. Then we’ll figure out the best way to get me to Unstable and recover your rental.”
“No, no. We should go to my place so you can rest.”
“If you’re uncomfortable with that, Aiden . . .”
“I am. Very. However . . .” He squares his shoulders. “We need to get this over with.”
“No, we don’t. You are entitled to your privacy.”
“It has nothing to do with my privacy. The issue is . . .” He shakes his head and takes out his phone. “I’ll call that ride share.”
* * *
Once again, I don’t drop the matter there. I want him to know, beyond any doubt, that he doesn’t need to take me to his place. I give him every opportunity, but he is resolved, which is just hellishly awkward.
Then we arrive at his condo and . . .
“This isn’t a condo,” I say.
He clears his throat. “Technically, it is an investment property, and it is zoned for rental.”
“It’s a house, Aiden. A house in Boston. Not the suburbs. Not the outskirts. This is a house in the core of Boston.”
He clears his throat, but only says, “Yes.”
“It’s also freaking gorgeous.” I walk to the plaque that declares it a historic building.
“It really is too big for one person,” Connolly says.
Is that his concern? A show of ostentatious wealth? It’s hardly a mansion. While I can’t see the whole thing from the sidewalk, it seems smaller than my family home.
“It’s what, three bedrooms?” I say.
“Two, actually.”
“Then that’s perfectly reasonable for a single person,” I say. “You said it’s an investment property.”
“Yes.”
“Makes sense. You’ve invested in real estate, and you’re living here while the market climbs. Nothing wrong with that.” I motion at the gate. “May I?”
“Of course.”
I unlatch it, and we walk it. The gardens are in full bloom. A gardener’s work, I presume. While I personally would be delighted to think Connolly had a secret passion for gardening—or any relaxing hobby—I know he’d never find the time to keep up his yard like this.
We climb the steps, and he unlocks the door and then hurries in to disarm the security system. I enter into a small foyer. Lead-glass doors lead to a room on either side and stairs in front of us. Through one glass door, I see an empty space.
“I didn’t see the point in decorating a room I don’t use,” he says.
The other door leads into a study. I look around for a living area. There isn’t one. The study attaches to yet another empty space.
“The dining room,” he says. “I don’t use that either. It’s just this and the upstairs. Well, part of the upstairs. One bedroom. Oh, and the kitchen. I do use the kitchen. That’s where I’d eat. Not much point in a dining room table for one.”
Is this the problem then? His very empty house? Again, I’d hope for more—some sign he’s made himself a comfortable little nest where he can retreat and decompress. As tiny as my Boston place had been, it’d been that for me. Yet Connolly is efficient to his core, and he’d see no point in comfy armchairs or sofas. When would he ever find the time to curl up on one? He has expectations to exceed.
“It’s very you,” I say.
He glances over. “That is not a compliment.”
I smile. “I’d like to see a worn recliner, with a bookmarked novel, but I know that isn’t your style. Yours is more . . .”
“Antarctica without the penguins?”
“Pfft, no. Who said that? Oh, right. It was me, wasn’t it? Fine.” I walk into the study. “Your style is a little austere. At least it’s a style. And this isn’t nearly as sub-arctic as your office. You have colors here.” I point at a painting. “There. I see blue in that . . . What is it anyway?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t decorate. Yes, it’s not exactly cozy, but I don’t spend a lot of time at home. It’s a place to sleep, mostly.”
He walks to the front window and looks out. “It’s a nice house.”
“It’s a very nice house. Seriously. I might tease about the decorating, but the house is gorgeous.”
“It’s not mine.” He blurts the words and then rubs a hand over his mouth. “I mean, it is. I own it. Or I will.” He squares his shoulders and turns to me. “It belongs to my parents.”
“Ah.”
“That’s why I haven’t had you over. At first, I avoided it because I know how it looks. I get letters in the mailbox every month from older couples, professionals, telling me how much they’d love my house for their family. They send pictures of their children, their pets.”
“Ooh, emotional blackmail as a sales technique. Classy.”
He opens the sheers. “Yes, I resent those letters, but I also feel like a speculator, squatting on prime real estate that some young family would love. I knew how it would look to you. Exactly what you expect. A million-dollar home that I barely use.”
He lets the sheer fall and turns to me. “Then it became more than that. I told you I’ve been trying to save enough to escape that marriage contract. If you found out about the contract and saw this house, you’d wonder why I don’t just sell it and pay off the contract.”
“Because it isn’t yours.”
“Yes and no.” He paces across the room. “I didn’t leave home to live in a place my parents bought for me. I have a little more dignity than that. This was . . . I would call it a graduation gift, but I’m aware of how that sounds when most graduates get a nice watch. When Connolly boys are born, our parents buy us a house. An investment property. They restore it and rent it until we graduate from college and secure a position.”