We hang up when I’m close, and I pull onto the obscure road that leads to his house. I park when I see the sun reflecting off of a window and get out of the car. But as I walk through the tall grass, I realize this is not his house. It’s a greenhouse. A stunning, spacious greenhouse. Yet I don’t see plants, just color. Intrigued, I open the door.
And I am presented with the most magical, intoxicating experience I’ve ever had. Hundreds of small glass pieces hang from this greenhouse, up the sides of the wall, over the rafters. Globes, triangles, squares, bulbs, open pieces that house air plants, and on and on. Each hanging piece of art is composed of unique colors and patterns, all so exquisite and beautiful. The early morning sun throws around beams of colored light, and I am entranced and nearly frozen by the beauty of this collection. I wish I could dance and spin in this extraordinary environment without shattering glass and the charm of this space. When I realize that I’ve spent too long strolling languidly through this haven, I rush back to the car.
These must be his mom’s work, I realize. Her glassblowing displayed in the most incredible testimony to her talent. Maybe she hasn’t been around recently, but Danny’s love and admiration show. This is his tribute to her, I suspect. But I also feel like I wasn’t supposed to see this. I’m not sure why, but Danny directed me to his house and his house only, and I stopped too early. So, reluctantly, I retreat and drive farther down the road until I reach what clearly is his house.
And it’s a damn cute place. A most quintessential shingled Vermont cabin with a small porch out front, a peaked roof, and all the charm in the world. I cannot wait to see inside. After a few unanswered knocks, I let myself in.
It takes a minute for me to appreciate what I’m looking at.
The kitchen on my right is flawless. It’s a narrow layout, a fifteen-by-five-foot space, but windows are pouring in light over a huge farmer’s sink, a granite countertop with sharp veining, a blue-patterned backsplash, and rich wood flooring. When I look to my left, I see that this kitchen is essentially a loft that overlooks a huge living area below with a short flight of stairs that leads down to that main floor. I about caress the iron railing as I walk down.
“Danny?”
He emerges from a room to the left in a towel. “Sorry, I’ll be ready in a minute.”
Seeing him post-shower for the second time doesn’t make me any less flustered than the first, but I say sincerely, “Danny, your house is perfect.”
“Yeah? You like it?”
“Did you do all of this?”
Two walls are packed with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the cozy living room makes me want to throw myself onto the couch and never leave.
I look up. “God, the light fixtures in here are divine.” One over the small dining table and another over the coffee table. “You are going to have to help me pick out stuff for my house.” I am nearly breathless. “I want some of those sexy floating shelves like yours in my kitchen too. And that sink!”
He laughs. “It’d be my honor. Back in a sec.”
While he’s getting dressed, I marvel at the design of this place, thefeelof this place. The perfect use of color that’s not too subtle and also not too loud. A rust-toned pillow on the stylish armchair, a small planter in a shade that reminds me of honey, and even whites that are not solely white. They are coconut and parchment and frost. He’s made a magical home for himself.
“Ready?”
Jesus, even in such a simple outfit as his navy T-shirt and no-name jeans, this guy is beyond handsome. Again, I am struck by how natural his looks are, his build, and the way he carries himself. He’s just…Danny. And, man, that is more than enough.
“Okay if Shallots tags along?”
“He’d better.”
The three of us drive away from that piece of paradise, and I head to the store while an old Bryan Adams song plays. It’s so dumb, but I can’t even look at Danny. Becauseit’s only love.He wants to come into the market with me, but I’d rather he stay in the air-conditioned car with Shallots. It’s likely the fastest shopping trip in the history of shopping trips because I don’t want to keep them waiting and because while I’m picking up lunch supplies, a realization washes over me. One I’ve toyed with and pushed away.
I slam the door with noticeable force when I get back in.
“Um, things go okay in there?” Danny asks skeptically.
“Yeah, I’m good. They had mortadella, so that’s cool.”
I’m totally silent as I drive. Until I’m not.
“I keep pretending that it is my house. And it’s not.” My hands white-knuckle the wheel.
“Maybe it is your house,” he suggests.
“But it’s not. It’s my mother’s,” I protest weakly.And my father’s.
Danny’s hand touches the back of my neck, and I shiver.
There’s nothing definitive to say right now, so I crank up the music and drive, but his touch never leaves.
When I pull by the front door, Danny helps Shallots down and runs after him when he heads toward the dock. Both of us flinch when the dog stumbles.
“Oh crap,” he says. “The dock. I forgot. I’m fixing this now. How many times are the three of us gonna trip over this shit? I need to hit up the store though. Can I take the Pathfinder?”
“Of course.”
My ability to form more real words right now isn’t perfect, so I throw my keys and manage not to send them sailing ten feet over his head. He catches them easily, and we hold the most beautiful eye contact that I’ve ever had.
“Shallots is gonna love you for repairing the broken dock”
I might too.
