CHAPTER ELEVEN
SARAH GAZED AROUND the entrance of Hunt’s ultra-modern home. “This isn’t a house. It’s more like the lobby of some boutique hotel. You know, Katarina mentioned that Ben’s business partner had this amazing place, but I never expected this.” Hunt’s house—castle was a more apt word, Sarah thought—was a postmodern gray-stone monolith. Three stories tall, it loomed on the edge of the university campus in stark contrast to the neighboring clapboard houses and the engineering school’s sixties, blah brick building, which could easily have been mistaken for a box store.
The house had a massive double-door entryway with a broken pediment above. The ground floor windows were long narrow slits that looked perfect for pouring forth boiling oil on any passing horde.
Hunt, Sarah and Fred stood inside the entryway—“foyer” Hunt had called it. The dog strained on his leash, his nails scratching on the polished floors in a furious tattoo. A painting on the wall caught Sarah’s eye. She shifted the KitchenAid mixer in her arms. “That’s by someone famous, isn’t it?” she said.
“Joan Miró.”
“Right.” Sarah nodded slowly. She was getting the feeling that she wasn’t in rural Minnesota anymore. “There was a show of his at the Museum of Modern Art. Katarina and I took the train in to see it.”
“Yes, I saw it, too. I think this one is better than a lot of the pieces they had hanging.” He cleared his throat. Fred yanked on his leash again. Hunt rested Sarah’s duffel bag on the bottom rung of a suspended spiral staircase that seemed to float upward to some Busby Berkeley heaven. “Listen, I need to take him out for a short walk before I let him have the run of the house.”
“Sure, you wouldn’t want him lifting his leg on anything like that.” With a shake of her head, she indicated a geode the size of a lunar landing module. “That could be a bitch to clean.”
“You’re right. My cleaning lady would probably up and quit, and that would be a disaster.”
“I can imagine. How do you dust a geode, anyway?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t even know how the washing machine runs.” Hunt pointed over his shoulder. “I’ll be less than a minute. Why don’t you just put down that…that…” He waggled his hand toward the mixer in her arms.
“Mixer. It’s a mixer,” she explained.
“Right, whatever it is, it looks heavy. Just put it down for now. I still can’t believe you insisted on bringing that but only a small duffel bag of clothes.”
“Well, I needed the essentials. And can you bring in the box with the kitchen supplies when you come back?”
“No problem,” he said over his shoulder. Fred had already pulled him out the front door. “Just take the elevator upstairs meanwhile. Fred always does. And put your feet up.” The door closed behind him with a whisper and then a thud.
Sarah sank on a lower step of the cantilevered stairway and eased the mixer to the floor. She gazed down. “Marble,” she noted. “Great for baking.”
She lowered her chin to her cupped fingers and stared around the place. What was she doing in a house with priceless art and an elevator? She peered more closely at the stairs. “Nah, it can’t possibly just lift up, can it?”
Then she noticed what looked like a futuristic light switch embedded in the bamboo paneling—so ecologically minded it practically screamed smugness. Though, Sarah had to admit, it did look pretty nice. Still, she wasn’t game enough to press it and find out what would happen. With her luck she’d probably cause an alarm system to go off.
“But, you know,” she said out loud, her voice echoing in the elegant, deserted environment, “hasn’t my life already set off an alarm system?”
And then the walls started to shake.
“I THINK THIS ONE IS BETTER than the ones they have hanging in the show,” Hunt mumbled to himself, repeating his earlier words. He watched Fred lift a leg on a privet hedge outside the engineering library. “Jeez, what a snooty thing to say.”
Somehow after Sarah had maneuvered herself into the low bucket passenger seat in the Porsche, and they’d wrangled Fred into the tiny back cavity of the 911, the full impact of what he’d just agreed to do finally sank in. He had agreed, or rather been railroaded, into living 24/7 with a voluptuous woman who was soon to give birth to another man’s baby.
Not exactly what he would have predicted five years ago, let alone yesterday or even this morning.
Ever since college, Hunt had lived alone. On purpose. Oh, he was social enough, never at a loss for an invitation, date or an affair. Popularity was something that came easily to him. Just like the rest of his life.
Maintaining a lasting relationship was another thing, and he didn’t mean getting together with his old Grantham University roommates for reunions each year. That type of camaraderie came easily to him. All it required was a good memory for names, a relatively quick wit and freely flowing alcohol.
As far as he could tell, the only true friend he had was Ben. And while he trusted him without reserve, and the two had weathered good times and bad, he couldn’t really say they were close. He was more than happy to listen to Ben bare his soul, but the probability of him sitting down for a heart-to-heart about his inner angst was just about nil. About as likely as him having children.
And he wasn’t even referring to the possibility of shooting blanks after going through chemo. That was one of the upsides of his treatment, his oncologist had explained to him. No, as any self-respecting psychiatrist could have told him—not that he would ever see one—his reluctance to commit to anything resembling a long-term relationship with a woman stemmed back to his childhood. Well, duh, Hunt would have replied.
Others, and even he, laughed at his overbearing mother who gave singular meaning to the term doyenne. Diva didn’t even come close. But he was no mamma’s boy, not even close. Other people buckled under Iris’s iron will and did what she “recommended.” Hunt, by contrast, just listened to her thinly veiled orders, and then turned around and did just what he pleased.
Besides, the real source of his personal hang-ups wasn’t his mother.
It was his father.
It was a secret Hunt kept to himself, not out of deference to the hallowed memory of his late father, but to preserve the life his mother had created for herself and, as a consequence, him. As Hunt knew only too well, Iris’s insistence on total and absolute control was nothing more than a defense mechanism born out of a marriage that had left her powerless and unloved.
Hunt’s solution was different. Besides the irrepressible urge to banter, Hunt made sure to distance himself from intimacy. On second thought, the banter accomplished that, as well.
So was it any surprise now that intimacy had been forced upon him—even without an emotional, romantic component—he found himself pushing back? Hunt looked down and realized that Fred had finally stopped anointing the bushes and was busy chewing on the plastic covering of a bicycle lock. It might be a losing endeavor, but he seemed to be enjoying the process.
Maybe that was the tack he should take with his new roommate. Quit trying to fight it and just enjoy whatever small benefits that came from being a good Samaritan.
Anyway, it wasn’t as if they were required to form a close personal bond. He would merely be her driver. She could just text him when she needed a lift, and he could come and get her. If he had to wait around at all, he could read the paper, or better yet, use the time to decide how he was going to “improve society.” Along those lines, he was beginning to view these chauffeur duties as a kind of community activism, a volunteer job. As the saying went, charity begins at home, and what better charitable project than opening up his own home?
In the meantime, seeing as she said she wasn’t interested in getting into a personal relationship, he could start practicing his social skills again, with no risk of commitment.
Hunt smiled. He liked that idea. Liked it very much. He could practice all his usual wiles, knowing that nothing would ever come of it, but at the same time reaping l
ong-term benefits—a sound investment strategy if ever there was one. Then at the end of these few remaining weeks, he would wish her well with her new baby, even give her a generous and thoughtful gift. He could even imagine visiting the two of them every once in a while, maybe playing with the baby. Not that Hunt had the faintest idea what one did with a newborn baby, but he was sure with online research he’d be just as equipped as the next person. After all, once upon a time, everything had always proved easy to him. And it was time to recapture that same feeling.
“Come, Fred. Let’s move the car off the street and park it in the garage,” Hunt said, feeling a renewed spring to his step. He even whistled a few off-key bars of Brahms’s Academic Festival Overture.
Hunt beeped his Porsche unlocked and Fred hopped in front. He started the ignition and hung an illegal right turn into the one-way alley that provided access to the garage. He activated the remote and an industrial-strength, high-tech steel door rumbled open.
Hunt edged the car into the narrow space, then looked across at the dog. “Come, Fred. Maybe if you’re lucky she’ll let you lick a beater when she uses that mixer to make a cake.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
HUNT INCHED OPEN THE DOORWAY from the garage to the hallway. Juggling two boxes of kitchen supplies, one atop the other, he craned his neck to the side to see where he was going as he made his way to the foyer.
What he saw was Sarah brandishing the beater. He dropped Fred’s leash and the dog scampered ahead, circled Sarah gleefully and gave a “hello” bark before racing up the stairs. His paws maybe hit every third step.
Sarah stood there, her arm aloft like the Statue of Liberty. She moved her eyes from Hunt to Fred and back to Hunt. Awkwardly, she lowered her arm. “I didn’t know what was going on. Who was trying to get in by—by— What I mean to say is I heard this massive rumbling noise, and I thought maybe—maybe…”
“There’d been an alien invasion?” Hunt asked. “As much as I like the idea of you defending the house by whipping up a quick soufflé, I’m afraid it was just the sound of my industrial-strength garage door.” He tried pressing the switch by leaning into it with his shoulder, but it was difficult to maneuver with precision. “Could you push the elevator button for me?”
“Oh, sure.” She placed the beater on the top box and took it from him. “I wasn’t sure exactly what to do, so I thought I’d just wait. I guess Fred is much more accustomed to the place.”
“Actually, this is the first time he’s used the stairs. He must have figured out what they were all about at Ben’s.”
The paneling drew back when Sarah pressed the button, and Hunt had her go in first. “I’ll get the other stuff after I’ve shown you to your room. Meanwhile, just press two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah, there’s a bedroom and bathroom on this floor, along with the garage and storage and laundry rooms. But one floor up is the living room and dining room and kitchen. We can dump this stuff there.”
Quickly, the small, paneled elevator whisked them up a floor. The doors opened, and Sarah stepped out. “Wow,” she said, looking around, her mouth open.
The open space was a light-filled showroom of white-marble floor tiles, low Danish modern furniture, and industrial lighting. She did a three-sixty, taking in the wall of windows over the shaded side street, before focusing on the rest of the decor. There was a sleek, glass dining table and molded chairs, and a glossy white galley kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a white marble island. The stainless steel appliances were all high-end. And except for the front section of today’s New York Times, there wasn’t a thing—not a bowl of fruit, not a dirty coffee mug, not a box of Cheerios—sitting on the acre of white countertop.
Sarah winced. “I’m not sure my stuff is going to fit in with the decor.”
“I’ll just have to call my decorator and have her come over and instruct us where to put everything.”
She looked at him askance. “You’re joking, right?”
“I lay awake at night worrying about storage,” Hunt teased. He stepped around her and rested the box on the counter. “Here, let me take that.” He removed the one from her arms. “You can keep your stuff out on the counter if it’s easier. It will add to the postindustrial charm of the place.”
Sarah walked over and studied a large abstract oil painting hung above a low bookcase. It was a jumble of drips and blobs. “KitchenAid and Jackson Pollock. I never envisioned the two of them together.” She turned back. “That is by Pollock, isn’t it?” She pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.
“If I told you I bought it at the same time as a wastepaper basket from Target, would it seem less extravagant?”
“No, but I’d believe it.” Then she noticed the twisted glass lighting fixture over the dining room table. Its undulating tubes of bright reds and oranges looked like a swirling sea creature from a coral reef. She pointed upward. “And that’s by that famous glass guy, Dale Something, right?”
“Dale Chihuly, yes. You know a lot about art then?”
“Some. I lived in New York for a while, and going to museums and art galleries on weekends became my guilty pleasure. Well, not that guilty—I stuck to wastepaper baskets from Target.”
Hunt laughed. “We’ll have to compare. I’m sure it’s charming. Anyway, one good thing about the Chihuly piece—it’s up out of Fred’s reach. Speaking of Fred, where has the monster gone?” Hunt asked. He glanced around, but didn’t have to look far.
“Fred!” he thundered.
The dog was sitting smack-dab in the middle of a low black leather couch, his tail wagging, slapping quietly each time it made contact with the buttery-soft hide. Sarah could just imagine how his nails would go right through with very little effort.
“Fred!” Hunt shouted again. “You know that’s out of bounds. Off!” He gave the dog a furious look, and the mutt reluctantly hopped off, only to rush across the floor, up the stairway by the kitchen, then a few seconds later, run down again. He sat up proudly in front of Hunt.
With what looked like a very expensive men’s loafer in his mouth.
Hunt winced. “I would say it’s wonderful that he’s conquered his fear of stairs, but now it only opens up new opportunities to do evil. I have a solution, though. Food! What this dog needs is his dinner.”
“What this dog needs is obedience classes.”
“I know, I know. But first things, first. There’s a bathroom down the back—” he pointed over his shoulder “—but the bedrooms are up another flight. As Fred has demonstrated, there’re the stairs. Otherwise we can take the elevator.”
“The stairs are fine. Listen, just give me directions, and I can find it myself. That way you can take care of the dog before he destroys something else.”
“Okay, if you don’t mind. My bedroom is to the left, facing the side street, but there’re two bedrooms down the hall to the right. One’s a study, but the other should work for you. It’s got a connecting bathroom with towels and toiletries if you want to freshen up.”
Sarah held the brushed steel handrail and trudged up the stairs. She nearly stumbled when she realized the drawings marching up the wall were the original artwork from New Yorker cartoons. She remembered decorating the makeshift bathroom in the illegal loft in Queens with ripped covers from the same magazine.
She reached the top of the stairs. She knew he said to turn right, but she couldn’t resist sneaking a peek into the master bedroom. Besides, the door was open. Maybe I just confused my right with my left, she said, not really needing to justify her nosiness. She stopped. Wow!
The master bedroom ran the width of the house and had a wall of glass along the side street and a large platform bed—endlessly large. Only good manners, and the knowledge that Hunt might come up at any minute, kept her from investigating if the sheets were black.
She turned the other way along the hall and spied a smaller room to the right. Streetlamps shone through two long windows and illuminated the outlines of
the sparse furnishings. She switched on the lights. Recessed lighting bathed the queen-size bed covered with a puffy, white duvet and a mountain of pillows. There were built-in closets, a low white dresser and a comfy upholstered armchair with a woven throw over one arm. A tall glass vase filled with branches of bittersweet sat on one end of the dresser.
Sarah slipped her small sports knapsack off her shoulder onto the dresser. The room was perfectly lovely, if a little soulless, much like the rest of the house. But it was home for her for the next month or so. It could be worse, a lot worse.
She wandered to the adjoining bathroom that had a glass shower stall with glass-tiled walls. The marble sink was atop a Shaker-style vanity, compact but elegant. She turned on the faucet and bent her head, cupping the water in her hands to splash her face. She reached for one of the incredibly plush white towels hanging from a heated towel rack and patted her face. Then she faced the mirror of the medicine chest.
She looked like crap. No, not that bad, just exhausted after a long day and evening. At least the twin lights over the mirror were forgiving enough not to highlight her pregnancy pimples.
She left the towel on the sink, not having the energy to hang it back up, and shuffled back to the bedroom. She pried off her shoes without bothering to undo the laces and stared at the bed. It wasn’t a difficult choice to lie down.
Sarah adjusted the pillows behind her head and rested one on her belly. I must remember to get out Quiltie, she told herself. She yearned for something that was hers.
“What have I gotten myself into?” she asked out loud. She hugged the pillow and stared at the ceiling, the white paint a flawless abyss of minimalist chic, and replayed the evening’s events.
Clearly, from his initial comments, Hunt was chafing under the bit. Just as clear was that they were as different as chalk and cheese. This house said it all. And to give him some excuse, she had been foisted on him without much choice on his part.
Family Be Mine Page 9
