The Fortunate Ones
Page 24

“Where to, folks?”
“Head toward Mount Bonnell Road and I’ll direct you from there,” James replies.
I stay silent, content to let James take control of the next few minutes. When I blink, the wreck replays in my mind. The point of impact flashes again and again until I’m desperate to focus on something else, like the fact that James is still holding my hand.
Fortunately, James and the driver carry on their own conversation for the short drive, and once we get closer, James directs him into a gated community I’ve heard whispers about at the country club: Island at Mount Bonnell Shores.
“Huh,” the driver says, leaning forward to inspect the sprawling estates surrounding us. “I always wondered who lived here.”
“It’s just up ahead,” James says, ignoring the man’s awestruck tone as he points to the left. “There.”
We pull up in front of a gated estate sitting on a few oak-covered acres. The house isn’t visible from the road, but the dark-stained wooden fence running around the property and the mid-century address numbers give the property a clean, modern look.
The driver pulls up to the curb and James hops out, reaching back for my hand so he can help me jump down. I step out onto the street and realize right away that the air smells different here—fresher—and I swear there’s a slight breeze where none existed before. I smile, because of course James would have waterfront property on Lake Austin. Every house in this exclusive community probably has its own boat dock.
James hammers out the details about his Tesla with the tow truck driver. Cash is exchanged, the driver tips his hat, and then he leaves James and me standing on the curb in front of his house.
“I like your fence,” I say with a small smile. I come from wealth, but James’ is a kind that exists in another stratosphere, the kind that intimidates most people—me included.
He shakes his head and starts to head up the paved walkway.
“C’mon. I think we could both use a drink.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James’ house is a modern take on a traditional Texas farmhouse: a mix of dark woods, copper, glass, and cut limestone. Ahead of the entry gallery, a tall light shaft illuminates the space from above and gives it a museum aesthetic. Stone walls contrast with bright burnished plaster and concrete floors. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it’s been featured in Architectural Digest, or at least on a couple fancy home blogs.
“It must have taken you forever to build this,” I say as he leads me past the foyer and into the streamlined kitchen.
He glances back at me with a smooth smile. “I can’t take the credit. The previous owner was an architect.”
“Well they had great taste.”
He nods and tells me to make myself comfortable while he goes to change out of his golf clothes.
I take a seat on one of his kitchen barstools just long enough to hear him close a door somewhere in another part of the house. Then I hop up and snoop around as much as I can. I’m not stupid enough to wander far; the place is a maze and I didn’t bring any breadcrumbs to lead me back to the kitchen. I play it safe by peeking my head into nearby rooms. There’s a formal dining room, office, some sort of sitting area, and an expansive living room—at least, I think that’s what it is. It’s hard to tell any of the rooms apart because most of them are empty.
At first, I think it’s a fluke, or even some kind of minimalist design strategy I’m too uncultured to appreciate, but the more rooms I see, the more I realize that isn’t the case. One or two bare rooms can be written off, but they’re all bare. In one room, I stumble on a few pieces of mismatched furniture, but they aren’t arranged in any sort of thoughtful way. In fact, it looks like James just moved in and only brought a few items with him from his old place. Framed photos and paintings sit against the wall of a sitting room, waiting to be hung. A mismatched chair and end table sit in one corner underneath a floor lamp. An open paperback rests on the table, flipped on its face.
The vignette is so depressing that I turn on my heel and book it back to the kitchen before I see anything worse, like a room full of discarded frozen dinners for one. Unfortunately, James is back before I am, pouring a finger’s worth of amber-colored liquor into a glass tumbler.
I blush at having been caught nosing around his house and grapple for the first excuse that comes to mind. “Just looking for a bathroom.”
His brow arches, but he doesn’t look up. “Find one?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good,” he says, pushing the tumbler across the gleaming white kitchen island then pouring one for himself. “I hope you like Maker’s Mark. It’s all I have.”
I hate it, in fact, but I’m not going to admit that. I reach for the drink and down a long swallow, hissing as it burns my throat.
He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. It was a gift, and I don’t have anything better—I don’t really drink unless I’m at the club or a social event.”
“Or after a near-death experience,” I choke out, trying not to wheeze at the aftertaste.
I’m sure people who enjoy drinking alcohol straight are very cool and badass, but I like my alcohol diluted and masked to oblivion. In fact, just give me the soda.
“You okay? Do you want something else?”
“It’s fine. I just usually mix it with something,” I admit sheepishly.
He turns to his industrial refrigerator and pulls open the door to check inside. I, of course, pop up on my toes to peer over his shoulder. There are a few takeout cartons, a half-full bottle of white wine, and the requisite condiments like ketchup and mustard. The fare is as depressing as the art sitting on the floor in his sitting room, but at least there’s a glimmer of hope.
“I’ll take that wine,” I say, hopeful that I won’t have to finish my drink.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. I don’t even remember opening it. Looks like you’re stuck with the bourbon.”
Why hath God forsaken me?
He pulls the bottle out of the refrigerator and pours the contents down the sink—as sacrilegious a behavior as I’ve ever seen.
“Did you just move in?” I ask, returning my attention back to the liquor I plan on nursing.
“Maybe a year ago.”
“What?!”
My shock is out there, spilling across his kitchen along with the sip of bourbon I spit out. I wipe it away with the sleeve of my shirt before he turns back to me.
“I guess it’s been a year and a few months, actually.”
No. That doesn’t make sense.
I turn back to the empty rooms behind me. “But what about your stuff?”
“The furniture? Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get around to that.”
“And the artwork…”
“I haven’t decided where I should hang it.”
He says it like it all makes sense, and maybe it does. Maybe I’m the weird one.
I turn back to his kitchen and see the pieces of his life I missed before. On top of a thick slab of Carrera marble there are paper plates and solo cups. The glasses and china you might expect to find in a house like this are in the custom cabinets, but they’re still bubble wrapped.
“Honestly, it doesn’t even look like you live here.”
“I don’t really.” I turn in time to see him shrug. “I hardly spend any time here. I work long days, and when I’m not at the office, I’m at the club.”
I frown. “That’s so…”
“Depressing?” he fills in for me before he downs the rest of his drink and sets the tumbler down in the sink. “Yeah, well, I don’t bring many people here for a reason.”
He’s being defensive, and I don’t blame him. I feel bad for poking at his life. I could have easily gone home after the wreck—we were only a few minutes away from the co-op—but instead he brought me here. I don’t want him to regret that decision.
“Well, if it matters, I’d rather live in your empty house than my ridiculous co-op.”
He turns back and smiles. “I think you have more furniture crammed in that tiny room than I have in this whole house.”