lime, moss—slathered over uneven terrain gave the property incredible dimension. She couldn’t see her neighbors. According to assessment records, each home had a minimum of ten acres. As much as she’d adored the city, the seclusion appealed to her dour side.
Mitch hopped out from the driver’s seat and slammed the door. With the duffle bag slung around his shoulder, he said, “You can sit on the deck with a cup of tea and watch the meanderings of nature.”
“Ooh, fun.”
“Consider it a healthier sedative. And the house,” he went on, eyeing the two-story home. “Not too shabby.”
The second level was constructed of white cedar, which sat atop a base of ash brown, beige and white checkerboard bricks. Three rooftop peaks mirrored mountain tips, and scores of windows funneled natural light into every room. Not that it mattered anymore, but low electric bills came to mind.
“Oh,” she said, shifting to reality, “there’s a trunk in the garage. Would you bring it in some time before you leave?”
“Where is it?”
“In the bed of Amos’s truck.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. Like the truck, it came with the house. It’s locked.”
“A locked trunk left behind by an uncle who did himself in. Proceed with caution.”
“Why?”
“Ask Pandora.”
“Do you have a fucking Off button?”
Mitch bypassed the dining room entrance on the left and made his way to the cedar deck. He climbed the single stair and peered out toward the woods. “Hey, Pottymouth, where did Dr. Frankenstein resurrect you?”
She joined her ex and gazed at the grassy slope and dark forest. Minor slivers of levity were shrouded by the memory of chasing a devastating illusion, and then the fiery fist. Her stomach coiled.
“You can’t see it from here,” she said. “And I don’t remember exactly, but I think I was ten or so feet up the hill from the tree line.”
“Unbelievable,” he said, scratching his chin. “I know where not to stand when it’s raining.”
“Tell me about it.”
Mitch dug out her keys and opened the door. “Finally, home sweet home.” He tossed her bag on the floor.
“Doesn’t feel homey.”
“A few coats of paint will warm it up.”
“Maybe,” she said, observing the interior she barely remembered.
Two camel-colored leather sofas faced each other, with a coffee table in between. To the left, a potbelly fireplace, dining table, kitchen counter. From where she stood, she could see the entire space. Strangely, she felt the house could see her too. The ogling deer heads, possibly, or all the windows.
“It’s too open. I feel like I’m in a fucking snow globe.”
Mitch chuckled. “You liked my loft.”
“Your loft is half this size.”
“Sell this place and come back to Chicago,” he said in a salesman’s tone, as if the city could cure anything.
“No. I just got here. You said this might be good for me.”
“You hate it.”
“Hate’s a strong word.” Zoey scanned the high ceilings and suddenly found it easier to breathe. “It’ll take some getting used to, that’s all.”
Mitch met her eyes. “Okay, how can I help you acclimate?”
“Get rid of the dead animals.”
“Huh?”
“The trophies.” She pointed to the mounted heads. “They’re gross, and they give me the creeps.”
“You had to hurt their feelings, didn’t you?”
“Stop it.” Spending time with her ex felt better than she cared to admit. In order to break the spell, she stared at the floor.
“Where should I put them?”
She’d always been attracted to his voice. That hadn’t changed. She raised her head and watched him unbutton his cuffs. “I don’t care. Anywhere, as long as they’re out of the house.”
Mitch rolled up his sleeves. “Done. Anything else?” His deep browns swirled like hot fudge, and she wanted to swim in them.
“Stay for coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I take it you know where to find everything?”
He nodded.
“I’m going up to change. Make yourself comfortable.”
She ascended the stairs, thinking about their past—lazy Sunday cookouts, dirt fights in the garden, bicycle rides along Lake Michigan. She tried to discount the memories, but warmness filled her heart, forcing her to acknowledge once, not too long ago, she and Mitch had had something authentic.
She’d met Mitch during a photo shoot in Utah. He had just gutted a neighborhood of deteriorated buildings and turned a huge profit. At the time she’d worked for Curtis Greer, a journalist with a moral bone to pick. Environmentalists claimed Mitch Hawthorne planned to bulldoze a corner of the forest and erect a small shopping center. Curtis chomped at the bit to get the story, but Mitch would neither admit nor deny the accusation.
Curtis headed his article, “Ain’t Mitch a Bitch!”
While Curtis conducted the interview, Zoey watched Mitch through the viewfinder. His smile was radiant and sincere, and his eyes were mindful, too mindful for money to be his motivation. Curtis grilled Mitch for a week, allowing Zoey to snap enough headshots to read Mr. Hawthorne’s deceiving personality. He withheld information. Based on her interpretation of his shimmering eyes, he had surprises planned.
She’d finally confronted him. “You’re not a jerk,” she said. “But what I can’t figure out is why you’re playing this game, leading Curtis on and letting half the town think you’re going to demolish a piece of heaven. Wouldn’t it be easier to tell the truth?”
His vibrant laugh and watchdog expression was how she knew she’d hit the nail.
“I’m having fun,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
“I can think of a dozen other ways to have fun, and at least one way to have a blast.”
Mitch gazed clear into her soul. “I thought you’d never ask. What time should I pick you up?”
“Depends, are we grabbing a bite to eat first?”
