Deceptions
Page 107

“Can I make a suggestion?” I said. “Since it’s my noncelebration?”
He exhaled in relief. “Yes. Please.”
—
We went to the beach. I’d remembered being at Villa Tuscana with Gabriel, before everything went wrong, how we’d walked down the steps and I’d talked about sitting out by the lake with a bottle of wine. That’s what I wanted to do. Not there, of course. But I wanted that feeling again.
We spent the afternoon in the office, working on James’s murder, so we wouldn’t feel guilty about the evening off. Then we bought wine and drove up to my spot. It was a wild place, all driftwood and long grass and thin stretches of sand mingled with eroded, treacherous paths. No one came here—there were better, safer, more scenic places.
I took off my shoes and socks before I even climbed out of the car, and I rolled up my pant legs. Gabriel got out, still in his suit and his loafers.
“Uh, gotta at least take off your shoes,” I said.
“I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t argue. Gabriel had to experience an obstacle for himself, which he did, as soon as we’d walked fifty feet and hit a patch where the path vanished, and water swelled over the sand. Gabriel eyed the lake as if he could intimidate it into retreating. It refused to yield.
As I waded in, Gabriel headed farther up the shore, only to curse as he stepped on boggy ground.
“You’re stubborn, you know that?” I called.
He grumbled under his breath.
“This is a beach, Gabriel,” I said. “No Ferragamos allowed.”
He looked down at his shoes.
I sighed. “All right. Fine. There’s a boardwalk a few miles up. We’ll drive—”
“No, I can do this.”
He started back toward the car. Then he lifted a finger, as if I might think he was making his escape. I walked to a small embankment and perched on the edge, my toes in the water, sinking into the mud below.
“Better?” he said when he returned a few minutes later.
I turned. He hadn’t just taken off his shoes and socks. He’d rolled his trousers and lost the coat and tie, even if the top button on his shirt was still fastened.
“Much better. Now let’s walk. By the way, I want a house right there.” I pointed at the windswept plateau above the lake’s edge. “A tiny house with a huge porch. I’ll come out every morning, with my coffee and my newspaper, and I’ll watch the sun rise.”
“I don’t think you can get newspaper delivery here.”
“You and your practicality.”
He chuckled as I climbed the incline to the grassy rise. I stood on the edge, face lifted as the wind whipped my hair back.
“My porch will be here. And if you mention the high probability of erosion, I will throw this bottle of wine in your general direction.”
“It’s a magical spot. There’s no erosion.”
“Thank you. I’ll sit on my porch with my coffee and my book every morning. I might even, on occasion, bring work. You will not, however, be able to check that I’m doing it, because I will have no cell service.”
He looked at his phone. “Actually, there is—”
“I will find a provider that doesn’t cover this spot, except on Tuesdays, if the wind is blowing north and I hold my phone just right. Otherwise, I am out of contact.”
“That might not be safe.”
“It’d be safer for everyone else. I can’t call for help and get you guys killed by a roving pack of evil elves.”
I moved to the edge of the bank and lowered myself to the ground. “Come and sit on my porch. It’s time to open the wine.”
He climbed up, then looked at the spot beside me.
“Yes,” I said. “There is dirt. The earth is made of it.”
“I was actually checking for bird droppings.”
“There are those, too, in the dirt.”
He sat beside me and pulled the corkscrew out of a pocket. “I thought you wanted a house of ruins?”
“I do. And a pretty little cottage on the beach. And a ramshackle cabin in the woods. Also, a Victorian with English gardens. Oh, and a condo with a view.”
He pulled the cork. “Which are you going to get first, once your trust fund comes in?”
When I didn’t reply, he said, “Wrong subject?”
“I want the freedom money gives me, but I’d rather have earned my own.”
“It is your own.”
“You know what I mean. If anything, it should go to the Tylwyth Teg, for finding me rich parents. Which brings up a whole other category of subjects I’d rather ignore tonight.”
“I always wanted a Victorian house,” he said.
“Like Rose’s?”
“No, I want a haunted one.”
I laughed. “You want pet ghosts?”
“Not haunted by ghosts. Just haunted.” He passed me the wine. “We forgot glasses.”
I drank from the bottle. “Mine now. I have cooties. Little guys, with wings.”
He retrieved the bottle. “I believe I have the same ones.”
“So, your haunted house,” I prompted.
He drank deeply, his eyes tearing at the corners, as if he were slugging hundred-proof moonshine instead of Bordeaux.
“There was this house,” he said. “When I was a boy. We moved a few times, but it was often within walking distance. It was condemned and boarded up. An old Victorian on a street of slums. I thought it was the fanciest house I’d ever seen. It probably reminded me of Rose’s, but it was this big, run-down, rambling place. Inside, though, you could see hints of what it had been. The flooring. The plasterwork. Even some antique furniture. It felt haunted, but in a good way. Memories and history. I would find things inside and imagine the families that had owned them. I used to tell myself that one day, when I was financially well off, I’d go back and fix it up.”