Her hand slides down my arm until it’s in mine, and even though we’ve done this a hundred times over the last few weeks, an electric thrill still races through me from fingertip to fingertip.
“Stop it,” she says. “You know full well that they’re nice, normal people who just happen to own a huge estate and spend tens of thousands of dollars every year on flower arrangements to liven up the place.”
“I didn’t know that,” I say, walking across cobblestones.
In front of the Radcliffes’ house — mansion, really — is a circular driveway with a fountain in the middle and a garage tucked off to one side, which is where we parked. The fountain is off, since it’s winter, but it’s still impressive.
“You never noticed that the front hallway always looks like someone’s either died or gotten married?” Delilah asks, lifting her eyebrows. “It’s kind of Vera’s thing.”
“I’ve never been in here before, remember?”
“Right,” she says. “Well, if these people act like they’ve met you before, just roll with it.”
We climb the steps to the front door, where there’s a lion-shaped knocker. Delilah lifts it and lets it fall, ignoring the doorbell button to the right.
“This is more fun,” she explains. “I feel like a barbarian at the gates.”
“And you enjoy that?” I tease.
“I like to play to my strengths,” she says.
We wait. And wait. There’s no noise inside the house, and no one answers the door. I study the pie in my hand.
“I should’ve put gold leaf on it,” I tell her.
Delilah just sighs, reaches across me, and rings the doorbell.
“Gold leaf is kind of gross,” she says. “It doesn’t taste like much, but the texture would make the pie weird.”
“That’s precisely the sort of thing I would never have guessed,” I say, and the door swings open.
“Ah, hello,” says the man standing there. He’s got on khakis, blue polo shirt tucked in, and slippers. “Come on in.”
“Dad, you remember Seth Loveless, don’t you?” Delilah asks as we step inside. “From high school.”
“Welcome,” he says, and holds out his hand. There’s a thick signet ring on one finger, and when he shakes my hand, he squeezes harder than strictly necessary.
I look him dead in the eye and squeeze back.
“Good to see you again, sir,” I say, and Delilah’s father grins.
“Please, son, it’s Harold,” he says, clapping my shoulder with his other hand. “Sir was my father. Come on, let’s get that pie into the kitchen. I’ll let the girls know you’re here.”
Harold turns and starts walking.
“Sir?” Delilah whispers, giving me a look.
“What? I was raised right,” I tell her.
The entryway is big and open, and yes, there’s an enormous bouquet of flowers on a side table, next to a gilded mirror. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and a staircase curves up and along one wall, leading to the second floor.
The decorations are different but the house is intensely, achingly familiar. I was here all the time while we were dating, partly because my own house always felt like there were too many people in it, and partly because this house was more than large enough to give us privacy.
Harold walks through the entryway, turns, leads us to the kitchen.
“Weather Channel says it’s supposed to snow tonight. Real humdinger,” he’s saying as he walks. “Predicting six to ten inches, though the way the cold front is looking I’m expecting it’ll turn to rain or sleet right around sunrise, like it’s been doing all year.”
“Typical,” Delilah agrees.
“It’s nice if you’ve gotta go somewhere but I do love the look of fresh snow on the grounds,” he keeps on. “And if you’re talking skiing there’s just no comparison at all — hi, honey, Seth and Delilah are here,” he says into the kitchen.
“Come in, come in,” she calls from where she’s standing on the other side of the massive kitchen. She wipes her hands on a towel, gives a final instruction to a woman standing over a cooking range that’s at least double the size of mine, and comes over to give us both hugs.
“Darling, how are you, I haven’t seen you in weeks,” she says to Delilah, somehow enveloping her in a hug even though Delilah’s several inches taller.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy,” Delilah.
“I can tell, and I want to hear all about it,” Vera says, glancing at me and then giving Delilah a huge wink. “Seth, welcome back! My goodness, that’s a beautiful pie.”
She takes it and also gives me a hug, and already I feel bad for making jokes about butlers and gold leaf. For all their faults and their enormous flower budget, the Radcliffes are warm, loving people.
“Can we help with anything?” I offer, once she’s relinquished me, and Vera’s eyebrows fly up.
“No, no, it’s completely under control,” she says, putting one hand on my arm. “But aren’t you the sweetest thing for asking?”
“Huh, a 2015,” Harold is saying, mostly to himself, as he examines the wine bottle that Delilah brought. “That was supposed to be an unusual year for Californians. Guess we’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”
“Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes,” Vera says tells him. “Why don’t you go select some wine for tonight so we can open it and let it breathe before we eat?”
“Sure thing,” he says, setting the bottle down on the table. “Seth, mind giving me a hand?”
“Of course,” I say, the only possible answer to that question.
Delilah stands up straighter, looks slightly alarmed.
“Do you need any —"
“Bree was just looking for you,” Vera cuts in smoothly, somehow making an interruption sound like the height of etiquette. “I do believe she’s tired of playing pterodactyls by herself.”
Delilah and I share a so this is happening look, and I give her a smile.
“We won’t be a minute,” Harold calls, and we leave the kitchen, wind back through the house until he opens a door under the main staircase, revealing the basement stairs.
“Seems as if the brewery’s doing well,” he says, flipping a switch and descending. “What’s the market for small-batch beers like these days?”
“Booming,” I say. “There’s been a huge uptick in craft beer sales across the board the past fifteen years or so. People are more and more interested in drinking well-made and local, and once you’ve had a really great beer it can be hard to go back to Bud Light.”
“Never could drink the stuff myself,” he admits as he flips on another light, leads me through the basement. “Tell me, if I were to become interested in becoming a beer connoisseur, where would I start?”
The questions keep up as we walk through the basement, which has been finished into a lounge of sorts: a large television, leather furniture, wood-paneled walls. At the far end is another door that leads into the temperature-controlled room that stores several hundred bottles of wine.
It’s strange, walking through here again: the room is the same, though the furniture is slightly different. The television is different, too, the pool table the same, the wood paneling the same.