Rusty Nailed
Page 49
“I don’t think I’ve seen you do that in weeks,” he remarked, and I smiled ruefully.
“I’ll feel guilty Monday, but today I can’t think about anything work related. My head will literally burst.”
He nodded, squeezing my hand as we walked. “Let’s talk about what we should make for dinner tonight—I feel like cooking. How about we stop at that farmers’ market you’re so in love with and see if we can find something fun—”
Still continuing to walk, I didn’t realize he had stopped dead in his tracks. I pulled on his arm. “Hey. Come on, pokey. Hey, Simon.” I snapped my fingers to get his attention. He was staring at a house at the end of the street, partially hidden by trees and a jungle of weeds.
“Babe, look at that.”
“Look at what—that shack? Yeah, it looks pretty abandoned. Let’s head back. Farmers’ market? Dinner?” I answered, pulling on his hand again. He stood fast, peering through the debris.
“No, look at that house. Isn’t it interesting?”
“Interesting isn’t the word I would use—” But he pulled me toward the house. Which had a For Sale sign in the yard.
Uh . . . what?
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, dragging my feet as he led me up the walk. As we got closer, I saw that it was probably once a very nice house. Victorian, but not froufrou. Peeling paint gave it a melancholy look, but it had clean lines and looked to be decent sized. I glanced around at the other houses on the street; rows of beautifully maintained homes. How had this house deteriorated so?
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a voice called, and we turned to see an older woman peering over her newspaper from her front porch.
“Um, well,” I hedged, smiling at her.
“Well, it used to be pretty. Want to see the inside?” she asked.
“Oh no, we couldn’t—” I started, only to be interrupted by Simon. “Yes, we’d love to.”
“Babe, what are you doing?” I whispered through my teeth as the woman produced a set of keys from her pocket and threw them over to us. He caught them in midair, saying, “Thanks.”
“No trouble at all. The Realtor has only shown it a few times, but I still have a set of keys. Mrs. Shrewsbury—she’s the old owner—went to live with her daughter in Sacramento. She let the house get the best of her the last few years, but it’s got good bones,” she said, going back to her paper.
Good bones. I mentally snorted. Someone’s been watching HGTV . . .
“Have you lost your mind?” I asked quietly as we made our way up the walk. Dodging clumps of grass and twigs, we headed up onto the porch.
“I don’t know. I just want to see the inside; don’t you?” he asked, and his eyes lit up with something I couldn’t pinpoint.
“Sure?” As he fiddled with the lock I glanced around, noting the orange trees, the honeysuckle vines, the shrub roses. This Mrs. Shrewsbury was definitely a gardener. Looking past the debris, I could see the white clapboard, the faded shutters flanking an enormous picture window. A traditional two-story home, its porch curved away from the street and wrapped around toward the back.
“There we go,” Simon announced, the door swinging inward. We walked in, the afternoon light showing us an outdated interior. I gazed at the mauve wallpaper with a calico cat border. But as we moved farther into the house, the entire back wall opened up into a view of the bay.
“Oh,” I gasped, seeing the little lights of Sausalito just beginning to twinkle down below, and farther out, San Francisco. The porch wrapped all the way around the back, with two comfortable-looking lounge chairs positioned to take in the view. The grass needed mowing, the weeds needed weeding, but it was a killer porch.
I turned back toward Simon, who was leaning against the mantel of a stone fireplace flanked by bookshelves with leaded-glass doors. They were covered in shelf paper, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.
Thumping my feet along the pink wall-to-wall carpeting, I made a guess. “There’s hardwood under this Pepto rug, I bet you anything,” I said, my heart racing a little.
Whoa, slow down Heart. What the hell were we even doing in here?
I passed Simon on the way toward the kitchen, finding avocado green appliances but ample space. My mind began to work. Not you too, Brain—settle down!
“Interesting?” he asked, reaching out his hand to me.
“Interesting,” I allowed, letting him pull me toward the stairs. On the way we passed a formal dining room, complete with bay windows facing the . . . bay. The carpet on the stairs continued the pink, but was only a runner, exposing the hardwood underneath. As we made our way upstairs, golden sunlight broke through the stillness, another huge window hiding under an eave but making for great light. I held my breath as we reached the second floor, peeking inside rooms and counting one, two, three bedrooms, a hallway bath with subway tile, original probably, and heading into what was the . . . master bedroom.
High in the trees, overlooking the porch and the undeniable view, it was a large room with windows on two sides. The hardwood floor was stained a honey that could easily be lifted or darkened. My mind began to whirl, placing a highboy dresser on one wall, a desk in the nook in the corner. Would the bed be four poster or sleigh . . . Oh no, I was staging the room.
Simon came out of the bathroom with a smirk. “Holy shit, you are going to lose your mind when you see what’s in here.”
I pushed past him.
Claw.
Foot.
Tub.
“Sweet merciful God,” I managed, leaning against the wall as he chuckled.
He caught me up in a close hug, leaning his forehead onto mine.
“Nightie Girl, we should totally buy this f**king house,” he said, laughing when I shrieked.
My legs literally turned to jelly. Everything south of my navel liquefied, and if it were not for the core strength I possessed from hours spent in the yoga studio, I would have melted into the hardwood floor and dripped down onto the Pepto carpet below.
“Simon,” I started, an eyebrow moving north.
“Caroline,” he came right back, his eyebrow mocking mine.
“Simon,” I repeated. “Slow down. And when did you start smoking the marijuana?”
He laughed again, then disappeared into one of the closets. I followed him, tamping down the hysteria that threatened inside.
“Listen to me. Seriously, are you high? You must be, because otherwise— Holy shit.” I stopped, my voice echoing. It echoed, you see, because the closet was as big as our entire block. I immediately envisioned miles and miles of custom cabinets: drawers, open shelving, shoe racks. I let out a whimper.
“I’ll feel guilty Monday, but today I can’t think about anything work related. My head will literally burst.”
He nodded, squeezing my hand as we walked. “Let’s talk about what we should make for dinner tonight—I feel like cooking. How about we stop at that farmers’ market you’re so in love with and see if we can find something fun—”
Still continuing to walk, I didn’t realize he had stopped dead in his tracks. I pulled on his arm. “Hey. Come on, pokey. Hey, Simon.” I snapped my fingers to get his attention. He was staring at a house at the end of the street, partially hidden by trees and a jungle of weeds.
“Babe, look at that.”
“Look at what—that shack? Yeah, it looks pretty abandoned. Let’s head back. Farmers’ market? Dinner?” I answered, pulling on his hand again. He stood fast, peering through the debris.
“No, look at that house. Isn’t it interesting?”
“Interesting isn’t the word I would use—” But he pulled me toward the house. Which had a For Sale sign in the yard.
Uh . . . what?
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, dragging my feet as he led me up the walk. As we got closer, I saw that it was probably once a very nice house. Victorian, but not froufrou. Peeling paint gave it a melancholy look, but it had clean lines and looked to be decent sized. I glanced around at the other houses on the street; rows of beautifully maintained homes. How had this house deteriorated so?
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” a voice called, and we turned to see an older woman peering over her newspaper from her front porch.
“Um, well,” I hedged, smiling at her.
“Well, it used to be pretty. Want to see the inside?” she asked.
“Oh no, we couldn’t—” I started, only to be interrupted by Simon. “Yes, we’d love to.”
“Babe, what are you doing?” I whispered through my teeth as the woman produced a set of keys from her pocket and threw them over to us. He caught them in midair, saying, “Thanks.”
“No trouble at all. The Realtor has only shown it a few times, but I still have a set of keys. Mrs. Shrewsbury—she’s the old owner—went to live with her daughter in Sacramento. She let the house get the best of her the last few years, but it’s got good bones,” she said, going back to her paper.
Good bones. I mentally snorted. Someone’s been watching HGTV . . .
“Have you lost your mind?” I asked quietly as we made our way up the walk. Dodging clumps of grass and twigs, we headed up onto the porch.
“I don’t know. I just want to see the inside; don’t you?” he asked, and his eyes lit up with something I couldn’t pinpoint.
“Sure?” As he fiddled with the lock I glanced around, noting the orange trees, the honeysuckle vines, the shrub roses. This Mrs. Shrewsbury was definitely a gardener. Looking past the debris, I could see the white clapboard, the faded shutters flanking an enormous picture window. A traditional two-story home, its porch curved away from the street and wrapped around toward the back.
“There we go,” Simon announced, the door swinging inward. We walked in, the afternoon light showing us an outdated interior. I gazed at the mauve wallpaper with a calico cat border. But as we moved farther into the house, the entire back wall opened up into a view of the bay.
“Oh,” I gasped, seeing the little lights of Sausalito just beginning to twinkle down below, and farther out, San Francisco. The porch wrapped all the way around the back, with two comfortable-looking lounge chairs positioned to take in the view. The grass needed mowing, the weeds needed weeding, but it was a killer porch.
I turned back toward Simon, who was leaning against the mantel of a stone fireplace flanked by bookshelves with leaded-glass doors. They were covered in shelf paper, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.
Thumping my feet along the pink wall-to-wall carpeting, I made a guess. “There’s hardwood under this Pepto rug, I bet you anything,” I said, my heart racing a little.
Whoa, slow down Heart. What the hell were we even doing in here?
I passed Simon on the way toward the kitchen, finding avocado green appliances but ample space. My mind began to work. Not you too, Brain—settle down!
“Interesting?” he asked, reaching out his hand to me.
“Interesting,” I allowed, letting him pull me toward the stairs. On the way we passed a formal dining room, complete with bay windows facing the . . . bay. The carpet on the stairs continued the pink, but was only a runner, exposing the hardwood underneath. As we made our way upstairs, golden sunlight broke through the stillness, another huge window hiding under an eave but making for great light. I held my breath as we reached the second floor, peeking inside rooms and counting one, two, three bedrooms, a hallway bath with subway tile, original probably, and heading into what was the . . . master bedroom.
High in the trees, overlooking the porch and the undeniable view, it was a large room with windows on two sides. The hardwood floor was stained a honey that could easily be lifted or darkened. My mind began to whirl, placing a highboy dresser on one wall, a desk in the nook in the corner. Would the bed be four poster or sleigh . . . Oh no, I was staging the room.
Simon came out of the bathroom with a smirk. “Holy shit, you are going to lose your mind when you see what’s in here.”
I pushed past him.
Claw.
Foot.
Tub.
“Sweet merciful God,” I managed, leaning against the wall as he chuckled.
He caught me up in a close hug, leaning his forehead onto mine.
“Nightie Girl, we should totally buy this f**king house,” he said, laughing when I shrieked.
My legs literally turned to jelly. Everything south of my navel liquefied, and if it were not for the core strength I possessed from hours spent in the yoga studio, I would have melted into the hardwood floor and dripped down onto the Pepto carpet below.
“Simon,” I started, an eyebrow moving north.
“Caroline,” he came right back, his eyebrow mocking mine.
“Simon,” I repeated. “Slow down. And when did you start smoking the marijuana?”
He laughed again, then disappeared into one of the closets. I followed him, tamping down the hysteria that threatened inside.
“Listen to me. Seriously, are you high? You must be, because otherwise— Holy shit.” I stopped, my voice echoing. It echoed, you see, because the closet was as big as our entire block. I immediately envisioned miles and miles of custom cabinets: drawers, open shelving, shoe racks. I let out a whimper.
