I need a break. If we pull up to another social club or package goods, I’m quitting. There are no businesses up this way, though. Only renovated farmhouses and a lone rancher here and there as the elevation rises. We’ve hit the Petty’s Mills equivalent of the ‘burbs.
And then there’s a fake stone wall with a sign that reads Gracy’s Corner. What are we doing where the rich folks live?
Forty lowers his speed to the posted twenty-five, and he waves at the man in the gatehouse. The gate rises before we get to it. I guess they know him.
I’ve been to Gracy’s Corner a few times in high school. The rich kids always like to party with the delinquents. We had weed. It was always clear, though, that when Daddy got home or the cops showed up, they didn’t know us.
We circle the roundabout with the pretty gazebo in the middle and head uphill. The street names are super cutesy. Ever After Court. Riverwatch Lane. Rocking Horse Circle.
Who does he know that lives here?
Finally, he turns down a cul-de-sac—Loewen Tree Terrace—and drives up to the house at the very end. It’s enormous. There’s another McMansion on one side and an empty lot on the other. There’s a view of the wooded valley that the Luckahannock runs through.
Double garage. Brick. Huge windows. Wraparound front porch. The lawn is so green and thick and perfectly cut it looks like AstroTurf. This place must be over half a million, easy.
He cuts off the engine and helps me off the bike.
“Who lives here?”
“I do.”
“Bullshit.” There’s properly mulched landscaping filled with lush green shrubs, hot pink peonies, and rhododendrons about to blossom. “Those are your flowers?”
He shrugs as he unbuckles my helmet. I swat his hand away and do it myself.
“The HOA has a guy. He’s got a company. I pay him.”
“You have an HOA?”
“Pain in the ass. Can’t work on my bike in the driveway.”
I don’t get it. “I thought you lived at the clubhouse?”
“Most of the time, yeah. But I got this place, too. Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me to the front door. He keeps glancing down, watching my face.
He’s probably thinking about Ed Ellis in my bedroom. My gut churns.
“You hungry?” he asks as he unlocks the front door.
“Nope.” I want a shower. And a nap. And a time machine. Is he just not going to say anything? I’m into denial as much as the next girl, but it feels…anticlimactic. I guess I thought he’d be mad. Or something.
The only thing that’s changed is that now he has a tight grip on my hand.
“I’ll show you around.”
I shrug. So far, there’s not much to see. A roomy foyer with high-ceilings, natural light streaming in from those big windows. No furniture. It’s open concept, so I can see the living room. There’s a leather sofa and an enormous TV mounted on the wall. That’s it. The kitchen is on a two-step rise. A breakfast bar with stools and a fridge bigger than any closet I’ve ever had. Nothing on the countertops.
“Do you like it?” He’s standing at attention at my side, staring at the kitchen with me.
“Dusting must be a breeze.”
“I got a service for that.”
His phone rings, and he gives me a wait a second finger, heading into the other room to take the call. I poke in his cabinets while I eavesdrop on him arguing with someone, telling them to send Mikey or Bucky, he’ll check in later. He’s got the bare minimum in his pantry. Pasta and sauce. A box of Au Gratin potatoes.
The kitchen has two ovens, though. One next to the other, and two ranges on top with a griddle in between.
Forty ends his call with a grumpy “figure it the fuck out yourself” and wanders back in. I’m fiddling with the super-oven. It’s bright blue on the inside. Fancy.
“How come you’re rich?” I’m just gonna come out and ask. There’s no way the Army pays this well.
“Steel Bones Construction. All patched in members get an annual dividend.”
I whistle. “Business must be booming.”
He doesn’t answer. This must be getting uncomfortably close to “club business.”
“Come on.” He tugs me toward the stairs. There’s a landing halfway up and a railing along the upstairs hall like in a movie. A fancy chandelier hangs in the middle.
“You swing from that?” I nod up.
He grunts. He’s not amused.
“This is a spare room.” He opens a door and shows me an unfurnished bedroom with the vacuum marks still showing on the carpet. There’s a walk-in closet and a communicating door opens to an en suite.
He leads me to the next doorway. “Spare room.”
This bedroom must connect to the other’s bathroom.
He rests his hand on my lower back and urges me on. I lean back into the touch. It’s firm. Soothing.
“Let me guess. Spare room?”
“Library.”
This empty room doesn’t have a closet or en suite. Nor are there any books. But it does have a wall of built in shelves. Bare except for a lone can of WD-40.
“Very nice.”
He’s still touching the small of my back, and now his arm is crossed in front of him like a square dancer so he can hold my hand, too. I’m tangled up in him. The hollowness in my chest that erupted on my walk down Gracy Avenue shrinks a little.
“Half bath.” He nods at a shut door.
He leads me to the open doorway at the end of the hall. “Master bedroom.”
“So this is where the magic happens?”
At least this room is furnished. There’s a California King-sized bed, neatly made with a gray silk comforter and at least six pillows, not counting the decorative ones. There’s a heavy, dark wood chest of drawers, mirrored dresser, upholstered chair and ottoman, and a bench at the foot of the bed.
I wriggle my fingers until Forty drops them, and I wander in. French doors lead to a kind of balcony-veranda thing. His backyard is enormous. It goes for at least an acre before it slopes down a steep incline towards the woods.
“Sledding,” he growls in my ear.
“Jesus!” I nearly jump out of my skin. He crept up behind me. “What?”
“That’s why I picked this house. That hill. It’ll be perfect for sledding.”
I crane my neck up, a smile softening my lips. We used to go sledding at the community college. They had a great steep hill, and you had to keep your wits about you, or you’d end up sailing onto Route 12. I ate a lot of snow, tackled by Forty at the last minute before I went sliding into the path of a car.
“Have you been? Is it awesome?”
“Not yet.” His lips are quirking up in the corners. He’s meeting my eye instead of glaring at my face. Finally, he’s looking a little less like I killed his dog. “Come on.”
He opens the French door and guides me down the stairs to one of those outdoor living spaces they have on home improvement shows. It’s almost five; the sun’s inching down. The sky’s a cloudless, vivid blue, the color that makes it feel low and thick.
“Pergola. Fire pit.” He points past the deck area. “Hot tub.”
“Hot tub!”
There’s a hot tub! And it’s gorgeous. It’s round and set in a low wood deck with benches built in. I’m already kicking off my shoes. “Turn it on.”