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“I really like pie, too. Stay the night?” she asked.
The invitation made him grin again. His lips gleamed from their kisses. “Night’s just about over. But I’ll stay the morning.”
She smiled. “My bedroom’s upstairs.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Phoebe took Duncan’s hand and led him from her charmingly old-fashioned kitchen, across the creaky wood floor of the hallway, up an even creakier wood staircase that turned back on itself as they climbed, to the second floor. The first thing he saw was the bathroom, right across a carpeted hallway. Illuminated with a pinkish glow from what was probably a plug-in nightlight, the bathroom was at least as old-fashioned as the kitchen. It reminded him of those old, black-and-white shows Grampa D had found on some obscure streaming service.
Still drawing him forward, Phoebe led him past a nook along a railing that overlooked the staircase. In that nook was an ancient wing-back chair and a small round table that held a big, old landline phone.
Phoebe lived in a time capsule. Duncan thought it was cute as fuck.
They passed a few doors and reached one at the end of the hall. The room behind it was at the front of the house. With a smile tossed over her shoulder, Phoebe opened the door and welcomed him into her room.
She flipped the switch beside the door—it made a loud, hard click—and a funky glass lamp came on beside her bed.
The room was tidily cluttered. The floor here was bare wood, in urgent need of sanding and refinishing. A queen-size mattress sat on a low frame, with a Seventies-looking arched headboard behind it. White comforter and pillows on the bed, white cotton curtains on the three windows. A double dresser with an oval mirror was obviously a set with the bed. Arrayed across the dresser was a row of little glass animals—Glass Menagerie, whispered Mrs. Tatum, his eighth-grade English teacher, at the back of his head.
The table holding the funky lamp was a dark walnut stain and looked like it had once had a place in the living room, at the end of a sofa. A stack of three paperbacks, their spines striated with the stress of many readings, sat on the lower part of the table. The one on top was Stephen King’s Night Shift.
No desk, no computer, no television, but a row of three white wicker bookcases neatly crammed with paperbacks and a motley collection of baskets holding apparently random shit. The incandescent light of that single lamp made it hard to tell for sure, but he thought the walls were painted a dusty rose.
He could imagine his mom having a room just like this when she was a teenager.
On the wall between the two doors he assumed were her closets hung three large shadow-box frames, holding carefully arranged collections of memories. One had horse stuff, including ribbons, photos, and newspaper clippings. One had high school stuff, including a dried corsage. And one, smaller than the others, held mementoes of her military service. Something in that one caught his eye particularly, and he leaned in for a better look: a hospital bracelet. Odd choice for a memento. Beside it was a photo of Phoebe in full combat gear, framed by two big guys, one white, one black, in the same kind of gear. They stood in front of what Duncan assumed was a tank; too little of the vehicle was in frame to be sure, but it was not a regular car or truck. All three cradled M4s in their arms, and all three grinned brightly for the camera. Phoebe had eye black on her cheeks.
She’d really been a soldier, had really fought a war. Duncan had believed her when she’d told the story, but seeing her in this shadow box, he really got it.
What wasn’t in this box was a Purple Heart. She must have been awarded one, but she hadn’t included it among her war mementos. The hospital bracelet, yes; the medal for being wounded in action, no. Interesting.
While he studied her memories, Phoebe switched on a couple more lamps. Duncan turned to face the room, and now he noticed that the front wall, at the windows, was a virtual jungle. All three window sills were packed with potted plants, and in one corner a half dozen hung from the ceiling in macrame hangers. On the floor below those were three big ceramic pots with large, lush plants. Tendrils from some of those plants trailed across the wall above the windows and down over the curtain rods. The woman obviously had a green thumb. Again, he thought of his mom.
Duncan’s parents’ house, the house he’d mostly grown up in, the house that was still his home, was by most metrics substantially nicer than this one. It was bigger, newer, in better repair, more carefully decorated, with far more modern appliances and such. And it was full of love and good memories. He adored that house. He was comfortable there and had no plans yet to leave it.
He didn’t know why, but Phoebe’s house felt like something he was missing. Nothing he’d seen here yet was as ‘good’ as he had it at home, but everything felt warm and cozy and ... he didn’t know. He just really liked this ratty old house. Despite the big dude sleeping in the recliner below.
